


The Good Guys

by Frayach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Ethics, Interrogation, Law Enforcement, M/M, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Second Voldemort War is limping into its fourth year, and the Forces of Shining Light are slowly turning into the Forces of Expedient Grey. When Draco Malfoy is captured red-handed trying to sell an illegal potion to a clerk at Borgin & Burkes, he is handed over to the Department of Essential and Necessary Truth’s newest interrogator. And as soon as he sees Malfoy, bound and waiting in his cell, Harry Potter knows he’s in trouble. Deep trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Guys

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written before the publication of _Deathly Hallows_.

On the fourth anniversary of the Ministry’s declaration of the War Against Horror (WAH), Harry Potter came to work pissed as a newt.

He’d gone to sleep drunk and woken three hours later still drunk, and if this had been four years ago – or even nine months ago – he’d have Floo-called in sick. But then was then, and now was now, and Harry didn’t give two figs. Half of his co-workers had already succumbed to serious drug addictions, and another tenth had developed tastes for extremely risky sexual practises. And just yesterday he’d overheard Williamson telling Sanders about his new hobby of baiting Muggle cops, running from them, then turning and reaching into his jacket for his wand and Apparating in the ensuing hail of gunfire. _Fucking brilliant!_ he’d rhapsodised. _Best rush I ever had. You should try it, mate_.

In comparison, Harry’s burgeoning alcoholism was nothing more than a minor vice. Certainly nothing capable of getting him written up, let alone fired. Harry snorted with laughter just thinking about it. If only it were that easy!

“What’s so funny?” growled Ron from the neighbouring desk.

“You,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on a stack of folders.

“Fuck off,” Ron replied blandly. He reached for his grimy coffee mug and glared into its depths. “Bugger,” he murmured, slamming the mug down and pushing it to the very edge of his desk. Harry watched with inordinate interest, hoping it would fall off and break. He hated that mug with a passion.

“Go get me some more coffee,” said Ron.

“Go get it yourself,” Harry yawned.

“You’re going to get some for yourself anyway. Would it kill you to get some for me, too?”

“Maybe.” Harry yawned again.

“Maybe what?” asked Ron, still not looking up from the stack of papers on his desk. “Maybe you’ll get me some coffee?”

“No, maybe it will kill me.”

Ron snorted dutifully but refused to crack a smile. 

Harry sighed, scrubbed his stubbled face in his hands, and stood up. 

“All right I’ll get you some fucking coffee. Since you asked so nicely.”

Ron made a rude gesture, still without looking up.

“Milk and sugar,” he said.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” Harry muttered, snatching the horrible mug from Ron's desk. 

On the way to the break room, he ran into Rawlinson. Literally. 

“You reek, Harry,” she said.

“Good morning to you, too,” he replied. “What’s new on this lovely May day?”

Rawlinson rolled her eyes and began thumbing through the folder she was carrying, tucking each page under her chin after she glanced at it and moving on to the next one.

“Well, here’s something you’d never imagine would happen. They’re renaming our departments. Again.”

Harry snorted with genuine laughter.

“What’re we called now? The Magical Ball-Scratching Squad? The Transitional Paper-Pushing Arsehats of Liberty and Justice for All?”

“No, nothing nearly as colourful. Or accurate. Looks like we’re being re-dubbed the Department of Essential and Necessary Truths.”

“Ah!” said Harry. “DENT. I like it.”

Rawlinson laughed.

“Go get your coffee, Potter. Then come by my office, and I’ll fill you in on the list of new tasks we’ve been assigned.”

“Looking forward to it,” said Harry. “Be there in a moment.” He lifted Ron’s grubby mug by way of salute. Rawlinson rolled her eyes fondly and turned away.

Monique Rawlinson was the sole reason Harry had any clue whatsoever of the goings-on in the War against Voldemort anymore. She was the only one of his superiors he could tolerate for longer than five minutes. The rest of them were either spineless sycophants, delusional idealists, or wild-eyed, spittle-flecked mental cases. Harry was well aware that he’d spent his first years with the Aurors as a mutant combination of all three types – a sycophantic psychopathic idealist, if you will – but any trace of sycophancy or idealism had disappeared after the raid that got him reassigned to a desk job. After that he’d become the nascent alcoholic with an attitude problem and found that he rather preferred it that way. Wars were far easier to endure drunk and jaded than sober and furious.

The people in the faded photograph on Ron’s grotty mug waved cheerfully as he poured the coffee and dumped in an obscene amount of sugar. It was one of the myriad photos the Weasley family had taken on their long-ago trip to Egypt. Harry made a point of refusing to look at it as much as possible. After all, more than half of the happy, carefree people depicted were now dead or horrifically maimed. He had no idea how Ron could bear to have it on his desk day in and day out. If it were Harry’s, he would have blasted it into pewter dust ages ago.

Ron didn’t look up when Harry slammed the mug down on his desk, splattering his papers with tawny spots.

“Thanks, arsehole.”

“You’re welcome, toss-pot.”

Harry took a noisy sip from his mug.

“Did you hear we’re now called DENT?”

Ron chuckled.

“Do those arsehats ever even think of what the acronym will spell before coming up with these barmy names?”

Harry took another sip of coffee. It was scalding hot and tasted like boiled shite, but it hit the spot. As always.

“Are you having me on? Those wankers in Command Post can’t find their arse with their own hands, let alone fight a war. They didn’t have the foresight to confirm with the Order that Snape wasn’t Voldie’s spy before sending in the Assassination, Reconnaissance and Seizure Experts and _Avada Kedavra_ ing the slimy git into the consistency of porridge. Do you honestly think they’d have the foresight to consider acronyms?”

“Given the name of the Assassination, Reconnaissance and Seizures Experts, clearly not,” said Ron.

Harry swallowed the rest of his coffee. He’d have dead skin hanging from the roof his mouth by noon, but he didn’t care. The coffee was virtually undrinkable if allowed to cool.

“My point exactly,” he said, vanishing his mug to the break room sink. “See you later.”

 

At least he’d be dealing with actual Death Eaters again, Harry thought as he followed Rawlinson down the long luridly-lit corridor. That had been the worst thing about being reassigned. The closest he came these days to getting his hands on one of Voldemort’s followers was filling out the paperwork necessary to confiscate his or her worldly possessions following a seizure or assassination. In fact, if Harry had to pinpoint a moment in time when his drinking changed from recreational to medicinal, it was the moment he realised that, at least until the Final Battle, he’d never again have the satisfaction of casting a Stupefy or a Branding Hex at one of those mask-faced bastards. His punishment for . . . overreacting . . . that night had been this limbo of parchment. This no man’s land of bureaucratic “process.” In the heat of battle, he’d had no difficulty at all remembering why this war needed fighting. The men and women robed in black, torturing a family of captured Muggles, were Evil. They threatened the very moral fabric of society. They needed to be stopped, by any and all means necessary, and any right they may once have possessed was forfeited the moment they chose to join Voldemort’s cause. It was that clear. That simple. Harry and his side were right, and Voldemort and his side were wrong. No shades of grey, no shadow areas. Just the blinding white-hot flash of Truth, sharp and quick as a thrown hex, searing the ozone like a lightning strike and bathing all who fell in its path in its relentless and merciless light.

Upstairs in his office, however, on his new (and seemingly interminable) reassignment, things were far less clear, and Harry found that his reasons for fighting this war were fading and blurring together with each passing day. And somehow, ironic though it was, the endless paperwork had managed to humanise his enemies in a way that meeting them face-to-face in battle never had. Day in and day out, he read lists of seized property – homes, shops, brooms, cauldrons, fine china, family portraits, an antique desk, an ancient tapestry, a silver tea set, a library of much-read books embossed with the dead owner’s name, a silver pendant with _Always, My Love_ , etched on its back, a gold wedding band, a hand-carved chess set, a child’s crib. And slowly he’d begun to imagine faces and remember voices, and then he’d needed to get a drink. And then another and another, until all he could remember were the words to maudlin war songs and which hallway led to the loo. The last thing a soldier needed was a reminder that the man he was about to kill or maim had loved, laughed and _lived_ as he, himself, once had . . .

Rawlinson stopped before an iron door with a tiny grated window, and Harry almost ran into her. Again.

“Rawlinson and Potter here to see Jennings,” she called, and the door creaked open.

A man with salt and pepper hair, who would be handsome but for his pock-marked complexion and meaty jowls, stepped away from a group of Aurors who were clustered like cattle in the small tile-covered room they’d entered. Although he hadn’t recognised the name, Harry knew the face. Rarely had a week passed in the last year when his zealous eyes could not be found staring out from _The Prophet_ ’s pages. He held out his hand and shook Harry’s firmly.

“William Jennings,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter.”

And before Harry had time to forestall the inevitable gush of _I can’t believe I’m finally meeting THE Harry Potter in the flesh, I’ve known about you since you were in nappies . . ._ , Jennings turned back to the Aurors.

“Excellent work,” he said. “I know that subduing and transporting them is far more onerous – and dangerous – than simply killing them, but this is the only way we’re ever going to win this war.” He paused and tapped a finger against his temple. “Intelligence,” he said. “Not something my predecessor valued, I’m afraid. But be assured that I do.”

Harry noted the murmured approval that swept through the group of exhausted Aurors.

“Can’t begin to tell you how demoralising it was, sir,” said one of them. “We’d capture one of these scum, and then some bleeding heart advocate from the Processes and Procedures of Justice Department would come in here and demand a trial. Tell us we couldn’t talk to the murdering bastard without one of them being present. I’m sure you understand, sir, if we developed an . . . informal policy . . .” Harry heard several of the Aurors snicker softly. “. . . Of ‘disposing’ of their cases before they got taken into headquarters.”

Jennings smiled reassuringly and reached out to rest his hand on the Auror’s shoulder.

“You’re talking to a man whose father was an Auror,” he said. “My Da lost a leg in the last war with You-Know-Who.” He squeezed the Auror’s shoulder. “Listen to me. A new day is finally dawning in this war. When the Minister signed NEMESIS . . .”

“The New Executive Mandate Establishing Secure Intelligence Strategies,” Rawlinson whispered in Harry’s ear.

“. . . she ushered in an era of proactive warfare. No longer will our brave witches and wizards in the Aurors or the Ministry Armed Forces be forced to react to faulty intelligence data at the eleventh hour. No longer will we be hamstrung by archaic rules and procedures that may have made sense in a different time and place, but which now prevent us from gathering the intelligence we need to win this war. Over the next several weeks, ladies and gentlemen, we will see the instatement of visionary new measures – measures that are long overdue, I might add. But starting today you have a new boss . . .” Jennings paused and pointed at his chest with a finger the size and width of a bratwurst. “ . . . yours truly. And, more importantly, a new rule. Fourteen days mandatory detention of anyone – Marked or not – suspected of fraternizing with the enemy. After fourteen days, we must notify the Processes and Procedures of Justice Department – as we will because we are citizens of a civilized society. But not a moment sooner. In other words, my friends, for the first two weeks they’re ours. We own the murdering fucks. Got it?”

The Aurors grinned at one another. They were still tired and besmirched with grime, but their faces were suddenly infused with new energy and hope.

“There were a few who escaped last night,” said the Auror, obviously the commander of his unit. “Ran into the woods. We’ll go back and look for them . . .”

“Only after you’ve rested and had a hot meal,” said Jennings. “And had a chance to visit your fallen comrades in the hospital wing.”

The Aurors nodded solemnly, their deep appreciation evident in their faces.

“Thank you, sir,” said their commander. “We’re glad to have you. We won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” said Jennings, clapping his shoulder before releasing it. “Now go find yourselves showers and cots.”

Harry and Rawlinson stepped aside as the Aurors filed out of the tiny room, and Harry could smell blood and sweat and singed cloth as they passed. Several of them nodded respectfully at him, and he nodded back, feeling some of the fervour he’d known when the war first began stirring in his blood. After the last Auror left, closing the door behind him, Harry turned to Jennings.

“They tell me I’ve been assigned to you,” he said. 

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Jennings. “I heard about your career before you were reassigned. Fucking waste of a good Auror, if you ask me.”

Harry bowed his head, blushing with pleasure at the unexpected praise.

“Thank you, sir . . .”

“. . . That said, however . . .”

Harry glanced up at Jennings’ face. The amiable features had suddenly turned to steel.

“Show up drunk to work on my watch, and I’ll bounce you off this assignment quicker than you can say ‘fucking paper-pushing pansy cunt,’ got it?”

Harry blinked and swallowed hard, but he did not look away.

“Yes sir,” he said.

Jennings’ face softened back into friendliness.

“Excellent.” He clapped Harry on the shoulder. “Well, shall we go see the rats our pussy-cats dragged in last night?”

Harry grinned and nodded.

“Yes sir,” he replied, more firmly than before.

Rawlinson smiled at him and winked before turning to leave, and suddenly Harry realised that this had been her doing.

“Monique!” he called after her. She stopped and turned, still smiling at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Yes, Potter?”

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Do DENT proud.”

Harry laughed.

“I will. Don’t worry. You won’t regret this.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’d better not. See you later, Potter.”

Harry followed Jennings through the heavy iron door at the other end of the room and found himself in another luridly-lit corridor, except this one was lined from floor to ceiling with tiles and was dotted at regular intervals by low doors with enormous keyholes. They walked without speaking to the far end of the corridor where a burly man stood by a partially open door. At least Harry _assumed_ it was a man and not a bear under those long blue robes and pointed hood that covered his face and left only a pair of eyes peering through slits.

The man-bear-thing stepped aside to allow them entry, and suddenly Harry was confronted by five stark-naked people huddled behind a wall of steel bars. All but two had the Dark Mark, and he scanned their faces to see if he recognised any of them. He didn’t.

“Well, well, well,” said Jennings pleasantly. “What have we here? A little party? Perhaps I can join in . . .”

“Fuck you, you Muggle-loving, dirt-eating, treasonous bastard,” snarled one of the men. “You can’t do this to us. We have rights!”

Jennings chuckled softly and turned to Harry.

“Did you hear that, Harry? This chap here says he has rights. What rights do you think he has?”

Harry frowned, trying to remember back to his rushed and truncated Auror training.

“Er, well . . . I think they have the right to a hearing before a neutral tribunal, the right to speak to a Processes and Procedures Advocate . . .” He paused, counting unconsciously on his fingers. “Uhm . . . They have the right to put on a defense and confront the witnesses against them . . .”

Jennings laughed a long, low laugh.

“Perhaps they _had_ those rights,” he said. “Back in the days when the worst the Aurors had to deal with was trafficking in illegal artefacts and love potions and the occasional random murder. But now that there’s a _war_ on – which, I might add, is no fault of our side – such rights are luxuries we cannot afford. Besides, these pieces of shite have made it the whole point of their campaign to undermine and destroy the values and principles those rights are based on. Do you think, if they were winning this war and took you and me prisoner, that they’d afford us any rights? Fuck no! They’d torture us to death and ask questions later. Trust me Harry, I _kno_ w.”

Jennings reached down to unbuttoned his cuff and roll back his sleeve. His arm underneath was a mass of shiny, pink, hairless skin. Scars twisted around it like ivy on a branch.

“And this is what it looked like _after_ a month at St. Mungo’s,” he said, rolling his sleeve back down and buttoning his cuff.

“So, what is this, then?” demanded a middle-aged woman. “Your petty little revenge? You can’t do this! You’re not the only one in charge. I want to speak to your superiors . . .”

“Oh right, of course,” Jennings drawled. “My superiors. Yes, I’ll be sure to let them know. Kind of like the way I asked to see You-Know-Who when you people had me in custody because everyone knows he’s such a merciful bloke.” He chuckled, turning to Harry again. “Wants to talk to our superiors! Did you hear that, Harry?”

Harry grinned.

“I take it that’s not one of their options this morning?”

“You got it, kiddo,” Jennings said. “Soooo . . .” He turned back to the prisoners. “My Aurors tell me you were apprehended in the middle of a raid on the home of a Muggle-born wizard and his family. They said you were using his head as a Quaffle in front of his wife and children when they arrived. How charming!”

Harry swallowed back a mouthful of bile.

“Are you _joking_?” he hissed.

“I most certainly am not,” said Jennings loudly. “Am I ladies and gents?”

The prisoners remained obstinately silent. Harry rounded on them.

“What is wrong with you people?” he cried. “How can you be so sick? So depraved? So . . . so _cruel_ . . .!”

He paused, his chest heaving, as he glanced from one impassive face to the next.

“Maybe you deserve to die!” he yelled at them. “Every single one of you!”

“Phew,” said Jennings, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “And just think, folks, _he’s_ the good cop.”

He grinned at them wolfishly.

“My Aurors tell me there’s evidence that another raid is planned for tomorrow night. Perhaps if one of you can help us out a bit with that, Harry here can see about getting you some clothes and an advocate. And if not, well then, I just hope it doesn’t get too cold in here overnight.”

He turned to Harry.

“Shall we go get some coffee and give these nice folks an opportunity to consider our offer?”

Harry tore his gaze away from the five pairs of implacable eyes before him.

“Yeah,” he mumbled absently. “Sure.”

Jennings smiled brilliantly at the detainees.

“Later, my friends.”

The cell door clanged shut behind them, and Harry started when he felt a large warm hand on the back of his neck.

“I know what you’re thinking, laddie,” said Jennings. “Those are people behind those bars. Like animals in a cage . . .”

“Actually,” said Harry, “I was kind of thinking the opposite. How could anyone _do_ such a thing and still remain human?”

They walked in silence for awhile, their footsteps ringing in the institutional silence of the long corridor.

“If I remember correctly from your file, Harry, you, yourself, were accused of killing an unarmed man . . .”

Harry stiffened and tried to move away from the hand that still rested on his neck, but it tightened reflexively.

“I’m not judging you,” said Jennings. “I would never presume to judge a fellow soldier. Shit happens out there. I know that."

“I didn’t use his head as a Quaffle in front of his children! And besides, I hadn’t realised he was unarmed. He reached into his robes. How could I . . .”

“Harry, Harry,” said Jennings, his voice fatherly and soothing. “I told you, I am not judging you. I’m simply reminding you that both sides have committed atrocities in this war.”

Harry turned to him, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“But . . .”

“Which is all the more reason we need to bring it to an end. Do you think I like humiliating people? Do you think I like watching another human being suffer?”

Harry shook his head slowly.

“No. But do you think those . . . those . . . people feel the same way?”

Jennings was silent for a long time, and Harry was beginning to think he’d never answer when he finally said, very quietly, “I have to. I have to believe they do what they do because of the stress of war, or exigent circumstances, or whatever passes as a moral code in their world because otherwise . . .”

He fell silent again and didn’t speak until the lift doors opened with a disproportionately loud _ping_!

“Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to stop . . . ,” he murmured. “And then where would the difference be? Between me and them?”

Harry glanced at Jennings’ face. He was looking at something in the middle distance – something, evidently, that he could see but Harry could not. Harry felt the need to say something – anything – reassuring.

“There will always be a difference, sir.”

Jennings shook his head, and turned his piercing eyes to Harry once again.

“You’ve only just met me, Mr. Potter,” he said. “Do not be so sure.”

Harry frowned, and Jennings smiled, clapping him on the shoulder, suddenly jovial once again.

“Your head is far too easy to fuck with, kiddo,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll work on that. But there will be plenty of time later. In the meanwhile, let’s go get those coffees. We’ve got work to do.”

 

* * * * *

 

By the time the Aurors captured Draco Malfoy more than a month later, the Fact Appropriation Committee (FAC) of the Department of Essential and Necessary Truths (DENT), otherwise known as Jennings, Harry, a woman by the name of Candy, and an indeterminate number of hooded bear-men, had gathered sufficient intelligence to permit the Ministry’s forces to intercept a raid party, locate an underground (literally) Muggle torture chamber, and disrupt a recruitment effort in Caernarfon. 

Also, by the time Malfoy was captured, Harry had stopped drinking. Not because he’d consciously decided to, but because he simply no longer wanted to. Ron rolled his eyes whenever Harry said he didn’t need Firewhisky when he got high on his job, but it was true. Jennings treated him with respect and never molly-coddled him, and Harry was learning so much. He felt more alert, more _alive_ than he had in years, and every morning he woke knowing that he was doing good work that had a real impact. He knew it did because he saw the results – kidnapped half-blood children returned to their parents; more Death Eaters captured and placed under Ministry custody; the infiltration of illegal potions rings whose proceeds from international sales went towards funding Voldemort’s campaign – these things happened because of the work Harry and FAC did each and every day.

“Last night was a slow one, I’m afraid,” said Jennings when Harry walked into Rawlinson’s office that morning. “Only brought in one prisoner.”

Harry blew on his coffee before taking a tentative sip.

“Well, there’s still those three from earlier this week. Maybe the fifty-six hours of sleep deprivation softened them up a bit.”

Rawlinson yawned.

“Don’t talk to me about sleep deprivation. The baby had me up _three_ times during the night!”

Jennings laughed.

“Well, you could probably file a complaint against her with the Processes and Procedures Department. One of their people was in my face yesterday about the quote-unquote ‘inhumanity’ of preventing a person from taking a nap.”

“Give me a break,” said Harry. “These people test illegal potions on Muggle babies, and the people from PPD are worried about them missing a little beauty sleep?”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Jennings. He turned back to Rawlinson.

“Have I mentioned how much I like that new lad you sent me?”

She grinned.

“Several times.”

Harry blushed with pride.

“Well, I _am_ still learning . . .” he stammered.

“Don’t listen to him, Monique. Harry here is a natural. Knows what’s right and wrong when he sees it. Unlike most of the twats in this government. Speaking of which, I’ve got to drag my arse up to the fourth floor for that seminar on International Wizarding Rights.” He sighed and heaved himself out of his chair. “Thanks for the pastry.”

“What pastry?” asked Harry. “Are you insinuating that I missed pastries?”

“Haven’t you ever heard the saying that the early torturing bastard gets the pastry?” said Jennings, winking at Rawlinson. “Suppose not. Looks like you’ll just have to ask Monique nicely and see if she takes pity on your late-arriving arse.”

“Cheese or apple, Harry?” Rawlinson said after rolling her eyes at Jennings.

“Apple, please,” he replied. “What’s this seminar thing you’re going to?”

“Just some time-wasting shite the Processes and Procedures wankers put together. It’s supposed to teach us to be sensitive to the ickle Death Eaters we rip cruelly from their cosy beds and drag here to our evil fortress. They hold one of these things twice a year, and every time I and the heads of the Aurors and the Unspeakables sit in the back and do crosswords. Little do the PPD people know, though, but they’re about to have the Minister whip out her metaphorical prick and piss all over their little parade again. Remember all those lunch dates Monique and I have had over the past five weeks? Well, let’s just say it was a bit of extra lobbying on the side. Things are about to get a whole lot easier for us, Harry. And after that? Well, maybe, just maybe, we’ll bring about an end to this bloody war and get on with our lives.”

Harry nodded solemnly, his mouth full of pastry. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

“But, in the meantime, I’ve got to suck it up and waste a perfectly good morning learning about the soon-to-be-nonexistent rights of our tattoo-wearing friends downstairs.”

“What would you like me to do while you’re gone?” asked Harry. “I could get caught up on some of the reports, if you’d like?”

Jennings looked at him and scratched his chin for a moment, evidently thinking.

“You know,” he said, considering Harry closely. “I think it’s high time you had your own case.”

Harry started and glanced at him eagerly.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. I don’t see why not. You’ve seen bits and pieces of almost everything the Committee does. I think it’s high time you supervised an interrogation and got some of the credit that I’ve been hogging these past few months.”

Harry grinned at him.

“You’ve deserved it, sir.”

Jennings turned his head and smiled at Rawlinson.

“Was he always such a good little arse-kisser, Monique?”

“Hardly,” she replied. “He was a horror show when he was upstairs in this office. I could scarcely convince him to be civil to the other supervisors, let alone kiss their arses. You must just bring out the sycophant in him, Bill.”

Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Let me know when you’ve finished talking shite about me, so I can go do my job.”

Rawlinson and Jennings both laughed.

“See what I mean?” said Rawlinson. “See what I used to have to put up with everyday?”

Jennings nodded.

“I do, indeed. My profoundest condolences, Monique. All right then, Potter. If you’re ready to step on to the pitch, then I’m ready to let you play with the big boys. Why don’t you take this fuckwit the Aurors picked up last night. See him through the Truth-finding Process . . .”

“Nice euphemism,” said Rawlinson.

“Why, thank you,” said Jennings. “Came up with it myself, if I may be so bold as to toot my own horn like that. Anyhow, as I was saying, Harry, why don’t you handle this case from beginning to end. See how you do, and if all goes well, I’ll start handing you additional cases as they come in. Okay?”

Harry nodded.

“Sounds great.”

“Good,” said Jennings. “Well, I’d better head up to the sinkhole of sap that is the fourth floor. I’ll see you both after lunch sometime.”

Jennings stood and brushed the crumbs from his robes before heading for the door. Harry was on the verge of following him, when Rawlinson spoke.

“Harry, if I could have just a moment before you go?”

“Sure,” he said. “No problem. What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up. I just wanted to say – just between the two of us – that Bill is a really super bloke and always has been. I knew him at Hogwarts, and he was an all-around nice chap then, too. But like everyone, the war’s been tough on him.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” said Harry. “Has he ever shown you his arm?”

“He doesn’t need to,” she said. “I was there when he was found. I was in the field back then and went on the raid that resulted in his discovery and escape. We hadn’t even known we’d find Aurors captives in that house. We just thought we’d find a few low-level Death Eaters. It was a real coup, actually. But anyhow, yes, I’ve seen his arm. And that’s not all he suffered, I assure you. He’s lucky to be alive, Harry. Especially since his best mate since school died from identical injuries a day after we discovered them.”

“Shit,” Harry breathed. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said. “It really _really_ sucked. And that’s kind of the point I wanted to make actually. Bill has . . . changed . . . since then. I’ve heard . . . reports from some of the fellows in FAC about his interrogation techniques . . .”

“Like what?” Harry asked heatedly. “Because I’ve been present for many of his sessions, and, yes, perhaps he bends some of the rules a bit, but he’s never tortured anyone!”

“Not that _you’ve_ seen, anyway,” she said, and Harry glared at her. She sighed. “Look, Harry, I’m not telling you this because I want to get Bill in trouble or drive a wedge between the two of you. I just wanted you to know the broader context, so that if a time comes for you to . . . to make certain choices, you’ll have all the necessary information. All right?”

“All right,” Harry said, standing. He was feeling more than a little annoyed at Rawlinson for her remarks, and he was eager to get down to the cells to start his case. “Is that all then?”

Rawlinson sighed again.

“Yeah, that’s all.”

Harry turned and walked to the door, but when his hand was on the doorknob, she spoke again.

“Just remember, Harry. There’s a thin line between quote-unquote legitimate interrogation techniques and torture. It’s not all whips and chains and hot needles under the fingernails, you know. There are many different ways to break a human being forever and never leave a mark. I’ve come to know you over the past year, and more importantly I’ve come to like you. This war will be over someday, and when it is, chances are you’ll still be a young man. Please promise me you won’t do anything to compromise your soul.”

Harry stood for a long moment, his hand still resting on the doorknob. At last he organised his thoughts enough to speak.

“You may be right,” he said quietly. “And I will take your words to heart. But, Monique, I can also assure you that while there may be different forms of torture, there are also different ways of selling one’s soul. I challenge you or anyone else to look a Death Eater in the face, knowing that he holds the secret to the when and where of a deadly attack on an innocent family, and not do everything in your power to wrest that information from him. The day an innocent person dies because I didn’t have the balls to pry it out of one of those evil bastards may not be the day I sell my soul, but it’ll be the day my soul is rendered so worthless that no one would buy it anyway.”

Harry realised that he was suddenly short of breath and his voice had risen and begun to tremble on his final words. Unsure from where, exactly, the flood of emotion had come, he wrenched open the door and left before Rawlinson had a chance to respond. Apparently, this was just something one either understood or didn’t, and if she couldn’t see that a real innocent life trumped a handful of theoretical rights, he doubted there was anything he could say that would change her mind.

After taking a minute to pull himself together, Harry stopped at his desk to grab a notebook before heading down to the cells.

“Guess who I rode in the lift with this morning,” Ron said.

“Celestina Warbeck.”

“No, but good guess. You got the hair right.”

“Hermione.”

“Bingo.”

“Shit, that must have been awkward. What’s she doing here anyway? I thought she was still lobbying for the rights of non-wizards or whatever the hell it was she quit the Order to pursue.”

“Well, apparently she’s added Death Eaters to her list of charity cases,” said Ron, scowling when he bore down too hard and broke the tip of his quill. “Fuck. Fucking cheap-arse government-issue quills,” he muttered.

Harry rolled his eyes and collapsed into his chair.

“Lovely.”

“My thoughts precisely.”

“Well, at least that should make you feel better that the two of you aren’t still dating. Can you imagine having to listen to her rattle on about the rights of Lucius Malfoy and company? I could barely stick the house-elves stuff. Listening to her get all misty-eyed about Death Eaters would turn my stomach.”

“Mine, too. Don’t worry, mate. I’m well and over her.”

“Glad to hear it,” Harry said, standing up again.

“Hey, Harry, would you mind doing me a favour before you go?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

Ron blushed violently.

“The wheelchair accessible toilet is out of order . . .”

“Not a problem,” said Harry quickly. “Do you want to wheel yourself to the loo or d’you want me to carry you from here?”

“What d’you think, you great git? You think I want to have everyone in the office watching you carry me like a baby to the potty?”

Ron rolled his chair away from his desk, and they wound their way through the maze of cubicles. When they reached the loo, Harry held the door open, and Ron wheeled past him.

“Don’t drop me like last time, you prat.”

“I was drunk when I did that,” Harry said as he bent down to lift his best friend in his arms. “I’m not drunk now.”

“How times have changed,” said Ron, wincing slightly.

“Did I hurt you?” Harry asked worriedly.

“Fuck, Harry. I hurt all the time, no matter what. You know that.”

Harry carried him to one of the stalls and nudged the door open with his toe.

“Need help with your trousers?” he asked, setting Ron down gently on the toilet.

“I’m not a _complete_ invalid, you know.”

“No, just a complete arsehole.”

“Ha ha. You’re hilarious.” 

Harry stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot in the ensuing silence.

“You know you could go wash your hands or something,” said Ron from behind the stall door.

Taking the less than subtle hint, Harry went over to the sinks and turned on the tap. Nearly a minute later he heard Ron urinating.

“You’re such a girl,” said Harry. “You do know that, I hope.”

“Shut it you, or I’ll make you come in here and wipe my arse.”

“Cock tease.”

“Argh! Merlin, Harry, you are the biggest fucking pervert in this Department, and that’s saying something.”

“Yeah, but I’m the biggest fucking pervert who is also your best mate. Are you done yet?”

Harry heard the toilet flush. And then silence.

“Ron?”

“Fuck!”

“Ron, are you okay?”

The only response was a frustrated sob.

“I can’t pull my fucking trousers up,” he said, grinding out the words.

“Well, let me come in and help you, then.”

Harry heard the door click open. He moved in and dressed Ron quickly and efficiently. After all, he’d had plenty of practise after Ron returned to the Burrow from St. Mungo’s. He’d stayed for a month, giving the remaining Weasleys a hand and trying to keep Ron from killing himself. Literally. Much had changed in the ensuing two years, and they’d gone out of their way to pretend that Harry had never emptied Ron’s bedpan or rocked him to sleep after a nightmare. But Harry remembered. And he suspected Ron did as well.

“There you go,” said Harry briskly. “Ready for the chair?”

Ron nodded, brushing furious tears from his eyes, and Harry lifted him in his arms again, trying not to notice his friend’s legs, his thighs scarcely more than femurs wrapped in loose bags of skin. They’d realised only later, after Ron had been in hospital for weeks and wasn’t getting better, that it had been an irreversible wasting hex . . .

“Thanks, mate,” said Ron. “You go ahead. I can get back to my desk okay.”

“You sure?” asked Harry. “Because . . .”

“Harry, I’m fine. I just want to hang out in here for a minute and pull it together, all right?”

“All right. I’ll see you at lunch then.”

“Looking forward to it,” said Ron, wheeling himself over to the sinks. “Especially since it’s your turn to buy.”

Harry snorted.

“See ya, Ron.”

“See ya, Harry.”

 

The next time Harry heard someone say his name, it was when he rattled the brass key in the lock on the single-man holding cell and pushed open the door with a creak. Except it wasn’t his first name that Harry heard, and it wasn’t from the mouth of a friend.

“Potter. What a pleasant surprise.”

Harry’s head snapped up from the file he was looking at, and his eyes collided with a familiar face. A familiar face which, had it belonged to anyone else, Harry might have thought shone with pleasure at seeing him. But since it didn’t belong to anyone else, it could only be shining with sadistic glee. 

_Well_ , Harry thought, _two can play at that game_ . . .

“Malfoy,” he said. “Just my fucking luck.”

“Funny, that’s just what _I_ was thinking,” Malfoy said. “An eerie coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Potter?”

Malfoy was still smiling at him rather unnervingly, so Harry took his sweet time pulling the metal chair away from the wall, sitting down, and arranging his robes and the folders on his lap. He noticed with satisfaction as Malfoy shifted in his seat, obviously disconcerted by Harry’s freakishly unhurried movements. It was one of the many things he’d learned from Jennings. An interrogator’s body language and demeanour were absolutely essential to the successful disposition of a case. The whole aim was to set the detainee on edge, remove any degree of predictability or hint of routine from his life. He must never know, from one minute to the next, how you will respond. He must never be allowed to feel in control, and he must never be allowed to feel safe. Unless, of course, it’s a preliminary to tearing that sense of safety away . . .

Harry crossed his legs, closed the file in his lap, and stared wordlessly at the man in the metal cage before him.

Malfoy was wearing torn black robes, and never having seen a clothed detainee before, Harry had to assume it was because Malfoy was his case, and stripping a detainee naked was one of Jennings’ tricks and not standard operating procedure. For a long moment, Harry deliberated on whether he should follow in his mentor’s footsteps and order one of the bear-men to tear off Malfoy’s clothes. But there was a down side to that approach about which Harry could not afford to fool himself. Malfoy naked was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Harry knew this from experience. After all, it was having watched Malfoy showering in the Quidditch locker rooms that had first clued Harry in on the fact of his homosexuality, and it was while imagining Malfoy’s wet skin and the way his hair clung to the nape of his neck that Harry had schooled himself how to wank like a pro. No. Malfoy naked was not a good idea. . .

. . . at least not _now_ . . .

Harry swallowed as the thought took shape in his mind and uncrossed and recrossed his legs. Maybe having Malfoy as his first case wasn’t such a bad thing after all . . .

“I want to get out of here, Potter.”

Harry snapped out of his erotic reverie and met the intently blazing eyes of his enemy. Indignant as ever, Harry thought. Nothing is ever _his_ fault, is it? Channelling Jennings, Harry smiled a long, slow smile, letting it crawl across his face like the stretch of a lazy cat.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr. Malfoy,” he said.

“What do you mean that won’t be possible? I have rights, you know!”

Harry laughed.

“What is it with you people? Do you have regular educational seminars on your legal rights should you be captured, or something?”

Malfoy looked at him, astonished.

“How did you know?”

Harry laughed again. Merlin, this was just going to be too easy. It almost didn’t seem fair.

“Spies, _Legilimency_ , screamed confessions, or a lucky guess? Take your pick.”

Malfoy’s face hardened, and he glared at Harry.

“You have no grounds to hold me,” he said. 

“Really? Last I checked Death Eater affiliation was a sentence-carrying offence. Are you telling me you’re not a Death Eater, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s face brightened as though Harry had inadvertently let slip a vital piece of information.

“Yes,” he drawled. “That’s precisely what I’m saying.”

Harry masked his surprise by yawning widely.

“That’s nice,” he said.

Malfoy frowned.

“What’s nice?”

“It’s nice that you’re not a Death Eater, of course,” said Harry. “That’s an admirable trait, Malfoy. Non-membership in an army of evil-doers, I mean. Always a plus.”

“So, does that mean you’re going to release me?”

“Hold on, let me check.” Harry opened the folder on his lap, which actually contained nothing more than take-away menus from nearby restaurants, and flipped casually through its contents. He heard a faint creak as Malfoy leaned forward in his chair, fruitlessly craning his neck for a glimpse.

“Uhm, that answer would be no.” Harry closed the folder again.

“But . . . but,” stammered Malfoy. “I haven’t done anything. I was just walking down Diagon Alley!”

“Really?” said Harry. “That’s interesting because the report I have here signed by a top Auror with more than twenty years of experience indicates you were apprehended at Borgin & Burkes delivering five hundred vials of Death-Sleep Philtre.”

Malfoy’s nearly colourless eyes widened so much that his nearly colourless eyebrows disappeared beneath his nearly colourless fringe.

“What?!” he sputtered. “That’s . . . that’s a _lie_!”

Harry feigned an expression of deepest alarm.

“Shit,” he breathed. “That’s terrible . . . !”

Malfoy leaned forward and clutched the bars that separated him from Harry.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to _tell_ you, Potter. There’s been a mistake! I wasn’t doing anything. Whatever is written there in that file about me is nothing but lies! I wasn’t even _near_ Knockturn Alley when those thugs . . . I mean, law enforcement officers, grabbed me! Look! I even have bruises!”

Struggling to manoeuvre with the handcuffs on his wrists, Malfoy lifted both arms above his head and tugged at his sleeve with his teeth, obviously trying to expose his arm. Harry watched, mesmerised, as Malfoy’s efforts only managed to expose a strip of pale skin and the glimpse of an impossibly pink and delicate looking nipple through the torn cloth of his robes. The sight was, quite literally, mouth-watering.

“Fuck! I can’t . . . Ah, there. Look, Potter!”

Harry tore his eyes away from Malfoy’s chest to glance at his forearms, bared to the elbows. Malfoy was holding them out to Harry, wrists up, his expression expectant and outraged. Purple bruises, yellowing slightly at the edges, marred his skin, which only looked hairless at first until Harry noticed the faintest palest sheen of white-blond down . . .

_Fuck!_

“See!” Malfoy said, his voice rising a notch with righteous indignation. “See what they did to me! As soon as I’m released, I’m going to file a complaint.”

Harry bit down on the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing and furrowed his brow in an expression of deepest concern.

“Of course you are! I can’t believe that they did this to you!”

Malfoy scanned Harry’s face for a fraction of a second, clearly trying to assess whether Harry was taking the piss. But Harry had learned facetiousness from Jennings, who was a master at the art, and he easily passed the test. Malfoy always was sloppy and impatient. So unlike his father . . .

“So . . . so, will you help me, then?” Malfoy asked, meeting Harry’s eyes beseechingly, and it was all Harry could do not to slide his hand under the folder in his lap and rub the erection straining painfully in his trousers when he imagining those eyes meeting his as he sucked Malfoy to the very edge of orgasm, over and over and over . . .

“Yes,” said Harry. “Of course I’ll help you. I can’t believe this even happened to you. I’ll go to Auror headquarters right now and get this sorted out. You’ll be home again by teatime.”

Malfoy released a shaky breath and slumped back in his chair. For a moment he stared at his bound wrists where they lay in his lap, but then he looked up into Harry’s face, and Harry realised he’d never before seen Malfoy looking so artless and forlorn.

“Thank you, Potter,” he said. “I owe you one.”

Harry smiled and stood up, careful to hold the folder over his groin. 

“No problem, Malfoy. I’ll be right back. Can I get you something to eat? A glass of water, perhaps?”

Malfoy nodded.

“Yes, please,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse with exhaustion. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Harry. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay.” Malfoy gave him a small, almost shy-looking, smile. “I’ll still be here.”

 _Oh, yes you will, indeed_ , Harry thought, smiling to himself as he locked the door to Malfoy’s cell behind him and made his way down the corridor. 

Harry spent the next hour playing a game of Exploding Snap with Ron and catching up on international Quidditch scores with Williamson. He even poked his head in Rawlinson’s office and asked if he could get her anything when he and Ron went out for lunch later – just to let her know he wasn’t still upset over their earlier conversation. Eventually, he glanced at his watch and yawned. Time to get back down to the holding cells.

Malfoy’s head snapped up when Harry entered, and he met Harry’s eyes expectantly. He must have been dozing. Harry was going to have to do something about that.

“Well, well, well,” Harry drawled. “What have we got here? Long time, no see, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s expression went from hopeful to deeply confused in the space of an instant.

“Uhm . . . how did it go with the Aurors?” he asked.

Harry frowned at him and cocked his head to the side.

“With the Aurors? What are you talking about, Malfoy?”

Panic flickered through Malfoy’s eyes, and he swallowed.

“You . . . you said you were going to talk to the Aurors who accosted . . . arrested me . . . and get me released.”

Harry flashed him a look of confused surprise.

“Must have been a realistic dream you were having there, Malfoy,” he said with a snort of laughter.

Malfoy inhaled sharply.

“What? Are . . . are you telling me you don’t remember our conversation?”

“Malfoy, the last conversation I remember having with you was when you yelled ‘ _Crucio_ ,’ and I yelled ‘ _Sectumsempra_.’”

“But . . . but . . . you said you’d get me something to eat . . . ,” said Malfoy, his voice trailing off, lending the experience of fading hope an auditory accompaniment.

“Not only was I going to get your charges dropped, but I was going to fetch you a curry, too?” Harry asked, his tone incredulous. “That’s an active imagination you’ve got there, Malfoy. What else was I going to do for you in this little fantasy of yours? Fetch your baby blanket? Suck your prick, perhaps?”

Malfoy’s face darkened visibly, and his eyes narrowed into slits.

“You’re fucking with me, Potter,” he hissed. “I don’t like it when people fuck with me.”

Harry yawned and held out his hand.

“I’m terrified, Malfoy. Really, I am. Can’t you see me shaking? But seriously. I’m starting to think I should call a healer down here. You’re obviously suffering from hallucinations. Could be a head injury. Don’t want you kicking the bucket on us, or anything.”

“You’re actually serious.” Malfoy’s voice sounded flat and dead. “You’re actually not going to admit that you talked to me earlier.”

He raised his cuffed hands and covered his face.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck. I’m fucking fucked, aren’t I?”

He dropped his hands and gazed at Harry with the same beseeching look he’d given him earlier. Except this time it was tinged with palpable despair. 

“Because if the noble fucking Harry Potter can lie through his teeth, then I don’t have a chance of getting those Aurors who grabbed me to tell the truth . . .”

Harry leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

“Look, Malfoy. Don’t waste my time, all right? Every single one of you twisted Death Eater fucks tries to feed me the same line of bullshit. ‘Oh, Mr. Potter, there’s been a terrible mistake!’” Harry said, his voice rising a notch in vicious mimicry. “‘I was just handing out alms to poor Muggle orphans when those nasty mean Aurors swooped in and grabbed me!’ Give me a fucking break, Malfoy. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Malfoy bowed his head and stared at his hands for several minutes. Harry whistled tunelessly and started filling out the reports in the folder on his lap.

“So, what are you going to do with me, then?” he asked at last.

“Huh?” said Harry, glancing up with a look of surprise as though he had completely forgotten Malfoy was present.

“I said,” Malfoy ground out. “What. Are. You. Go.ing. To. Do. With. Me?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” said Harry cheerfully. He glanced at his watch. “Shit. Lunch time. Gotta go. See you later, Malfoy.”

Harry stood up and gathered his papers together, closing the door firmly on Malfoy’s strangled, “Potter! Wait! . . .”

 

By the time Harry was ready to call it a day, he had made Malfoy yell at him for an hour straight and urinate into the drain in the middle of his cell while Harry watched. So far his first case was an unmitigated success. Especially when Harry had noticed Malfoy’s chin wobble dangerously as he struggled to relieve himself under Harry’s relentless gaze. Clearly, like Ron, Malfoy suffered from Shy Bladder Syndrome. It almost made Harry feel warm and fuzzy inside. And it definitely turned him on. Actually, Harry found himself hoping it would take a long time to break Malfoy because at some point Harry would insist on holding his cock for him . . .

Among other things.

Harry stripped and stepped into the shower, tilting his head back and soaking his hair. His erection felt like it weighed a stone, and he could feel it jutting out in front of him, bobbing and twitching under the spray. He’d been hard to one degree or another since he’d first stepped into the holding cell that morning and met Malfoy’s eyes, and watching Malfoy trying to piss, his hands desperately milking his soft pink prick, had just about made him shoot his load right then and there. Gods, but he was horny as hell for the little Death Eater fuck! No one had ever managed to make him as hard as an unwitting Malfoy did, not even a lover’s willing offer of his mouth or his arse. Nothing and no one made him crazy with lust like the memory of Malfoy’s slender body, damp skinned from the shower, and hard with new, puberty-induced muscle. Nothing and no one had ever made Harry want to do the things that he’d imagined doing to Malfoy. No one else made Harry’s mouth water to kneel on warm tiles and spread apart his buttocks so that he could lap away the water falling against his back and flowing down the channel of his firm arse . . .

Harry covered his hands with soap and began stroking his cock, giving himself up completely to the mental image of his tongue breaching Malfoy’s tight little hole. He’d hold Malfoy’s hips steady in both hands, spread his arse cheeks with his thumbs and just fucking plunder the pretty pointy git until he was loose enough for Harry to see the bright pink flesh of his rectum when he pulled back and opened Malfoy wider. And then Harry would tongue fuck him to orgasm, deep enough and far enough that when Malfoy came, the spasms would nearly tear off Harry’s tongue at the root . . .

The thought of Malfoy coming made Harry come – suddenly and unexpectedly – and he cried out, his voice echoing in the small enclosed space of his bathroom. It was only after he slumped against the shower wall and began to draw deep shuddering breaths that he realised what he’d shouted. Not “Ah, fuck, Malfoy, you hot little slut!” or anything even remotely similar. No. Instead he’d called Malfoy’s name. Desperately. Pleadingly. And not his surname either.

“So, how did it go yesterday?” asked Jennings, looking up from the paperwork on his desk when Harry entered his office, obligatory mug of undrinkable coffee in hand.

“Fairly well, I think,” said Harry, sitting in the chair across from Jennings and stretching his legs out in front of him. He’d already decided while he was getting dressed and brushing his teeth that he wasn’t going to tell Jennings that he knew Malfoy. He just wasn’t sure which way that piece of information would cut, and he didn’t want to risk having Malfoy reassigned . . .

“Learn anything useful yet?”

“Only that the git can’t pee if someone’s watching.”

Jennings threw back his head and laughed.

“Don’t you just love it? These wankers think nothing of torturing a man to death but ask them to disrobe or shit in a pot and all of a sudden they’re full of blushing virtue.” He wiped the tears of laughter away with his thumbs. “Damn. That never ceases to crack me up.”

Harry grinned.

“Well, we’ll see how he’s feeling today. I gave orders to Murphy and Magee last night to strip him to his underwear and douse him with cold water every time he looked on the verge of falling asleep. He might be more in a mood to talk this morning than he was yesterday.”

“Excellent,” said Jennings. “You carry on with him, then, and I’ll see what I can do with those two from the other day.”

“I thought there were three of them,” said Harry. “What happened to the third guy?”

Jennings looked up from his paperwork and regarded Harry for a long moment, dragging his quill feathers over his chin thoughtfully.

“I’m afraid there was a bit of an . . . accident last night. Guzmán told me this morning that one of the fellows hadn’t eaten since we brought them in. Fainted in the showers and hit his head on one of the taps. By the time Guzmán brought a healer down, the guy was already in a coma. Died at St. Mungo’s this morning.”

“Shit,” said Harry. “That’s . . . that’s too bad.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Jennings. “I’d pegged him as the first one to crack. The other two are far more seasoned. Damn waste of a green detainee.”

Harry felt himself frowning. Even if the bloke was a Death Eater, he was more than just a “green detainee.” Most likely, he was somebody’s son, friend, lover . . .

“What were his charges again?”

Jennings moved some files around on his desk, searching for the right one.

“Ah, here we go. Let’s see. Intercepted on the way to a known Death Eater safe house . . . blah blah blah . . . _Prior Incantato_ revealed several recent Unforgivables . . . blah blah . . . resisted arrest . . . blah blah . . .confessed to the Brocklehurst incident . . .”

“Really?” exclaimed Harry. “The Brocklehurst incident? I remember hearing about that. Killed their victims with a toxic potion that dissolved them from the inside-out.” He shuddered convulsively, all pity drowned in a flood of revulsion. “Can you _believe_ that?”

Jennings shook his head sadly and closed the folder.

“It won’t matter for how long you do this, Harry. The depravity of these people will never cease to shock you. And if it does? Well, then you know it’s time to check yourself into the mental ward at St. Mungo’s.”

“Well, given that the bloke confessed to being involved with the Brocklehurst murders, I can’t say I feel too bad that he fell and hit his head in the shower. If anything, it sounds too good for someone like him.”

“I share that sentiment completely,” said Jennings. “But nonetheless, we have an obligation to keep these people alive – not only for their sakes but for the sake of further intelligence gathering. That fellow could have been the link to other unsolved incidents, but now we’ll never know.” He sighed. “It was my fault, actually. Guzmán said he’d need to be force-fed. I was just too eager to get home last night. Had my kids for the first time in a month . . .”

“Don’t blame yourself, sir,” said Harry. “The guy starved _himself_ after all. We offered him three meals a day, and he turned them down. How is that your fault?”

“You’ve got to understand that these people become like sheep, Harry. After you break a man . . . or a woman, sorry, don’t mean to be a male chauvinist or anything . . . he or she reverts to being a child. They can’t take care of themselves. They can’t make rational choices.”

Harry nodded. He’d already got a sense of this fact over the past month and a half. Wizards who’d been proud and defiant when first captured had snivelled and crawled after two weeks of sleep deprivation and psychological manipulation. 

“Anyhow,” sighed Jennings. ‘Let this be a lesson to us in the future. If the bastards won’t eat, we have to shove the food down their slimy gullets . . . ”

A memo flew in and bounced off the wall just behind Jennings’ head.

“Shit! Mark my word, someday I’m going to have my eye poked out by one of those things.”

He unfolded the memo and frowned.

“Looks like the folks up in PPD caught wind of our little fainter. Looks like I’ll have to waste another perfectly good morning doing damage control.”

He stood up, and Harry followed suit.

“Why don’t you go down and check on your case. I’ll catch up with you later.”

Harry nodded.

“No problem,” he said. “Good luck.”

Jennings rolled his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll need it. Those people already tried to kill me with their sanctimony yesterday. They’ve got this new woman up there who’s worse than all the rest of them combined. Merlin, but she about did me in yesterday!”

“Is her name Hermione by any chance?” asked Harry.

Jennings reached for a folder on his desk labelled “Human Rights for Dummies” and flipped through it for a second.

“Yup. Hermione J. Granger.”

Harry laughed a little sadly.

“Thought so,” he said. “She’s not so bad, actually. Just a bit . . . ”

“Annoying? Self-righteous? Insane? . . .”

“Well, I was going to say, ‘fanatical,’” said Harry. “But I suppose those other adjectives might fit, too. Her heart’s in the right place, though.”

“Haarumph,” said Jennings, gathering a stack of folders in his arms and heading for the door. “Hard to see how someone’s heart is in the right place when she wants murdering Death Eaters to run free.”

Harry was about to say that he highly doubted Hermione wanted Death Eaters to run free, but Jennings was already heading out of his office and down the hall. He sighed and closed his boss’s door behind him. Hermione had never made it easy to sympathise with her causes. Even if you were inclined to agree on some points, her uncompromising holier-than-thou approach just _invited_ argument.

 

Malfoy looked like shit.

Harry drew the metal chair away from the wall and sat down, exactly in the same place he’d sat yesterday, and spent several seconds getting comfortable. He even brushed the pastry crumbs off the front of his robes and examining his fingernails. When at last he deigned to look up, he found Malfoy glaring daggers at him from beneath damp fringe that hung in his eyes.

“How’d you sleep, Malfoy?”

“Fuck you, Potter,” he spat. “I suppose if I don’t say something you want to hear soon, you’re going to have one of those guards kick my head in like they did to that poor bastard last night.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Nobody kicked in anyone’s head, Malfoy. Don’t be such a drama queen. The bloke fell in the shower.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever you say, Potty. That’s why he screamed for an hour nonstop. That always happens when you slip in the shower.”

“He hit his head. Probably hurt. What can I say, Malfoy? Unlike your people, we don’t torture anyone here.”

Malfoy’s look of incredulity was almost comical.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. What was that you just said?”

Harry smiled.

“I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong, Malfoy. It’s me who asks the questions around here. Not you.”

“Then ask me what I was doing when I was grabbed!”

“I don’t need to ask you,” said Harry very slowly as if he were talking to an extraordinarily stupid child. “I have the Auror report, and it tells me everything I need to know.”

“Let me see that fucking thing!” Malfoy snarled.

“No,” said Harry. “I don’t feel like giving it to you.”

Malfoy gritted his teeth, and Harry could see the muscles in his jaw work beneath the flawless skin.

“Give. Me. The. Report. Potter. I have a right to read the charges against me.”

“I bet before last night you also believed you had a right not to be woken with a bucket of cold water every time your eyes drifted shut, didn’t you? Well, guess what? You were wrong. And if you were wrong about that, then there’s a good chance you’re wrong about your right to read a sealed and confidential Auror report. But that’s only an uneducated guess. I _could_ be mistaken.” 

Malfoy closed his eyes and squeezed them shut. For a second Harry thought he might start crying, but then he opened them again and looked at Harry, his expression one of weariness and defeat.

“If you don’t want to hear anything about the circumstances surrounding my kidnapping . . . I mean, _arrest_ ,” Harry smirked as Malfoy made little finger quotes in the air when he said the word. “Then what am I doing here? If all you want to do is lock me away, then why not just send me to Azkaban and be done with it? At least there I’ll be able to sleep for longer than five minutes at a stretch.”

Harry grinned.

“You always did look smarter than you really are, Malfoy. Don’t you know the first rule in getting what you want from your enemy is telling him that what you want is the hands-down worst possible thing he could do to you? So, by way of a purely hypothetical example, let’s say I was dying for you to suck me off. That all I wanted in the world was for your hot mouth wrapped around my throbbing prick. Let’s even say that I was soaking my underwear just sitting here _thinking_ about it. Now, what’s the worst thing I could do in that scenario? Exactly! The worst thing I could do would be to tell you how badly I want to fuck your mouth and feel your tongue probing my dripping slit. Big mistake. What I _should_ do under these purely hypothetical circumstances is tell you what a raging homophobe I am, and that the worst thing you could do to me – the thing that would kill me, that would break my soul – would be for you to suck my cock. Now tell me, if faced with that bit of very useful information, what would you do?”

Malfoy glared at Harry with what looked like every ounce of hatred in his veins.

“Sorry,” said Harry. “I don’t think I heard your answer.”

“I would suck your cock,” Malfoy said in a low snarl.

Harry’s face lit up, and he beamed.

“You will? Holy shit! It’s my lucky day!”

He threw his folders on the floor and stood up, frantically unbuttoning his robes.

“What are you _doing_ , Potter!?” Malfoy practically squeaked.

Harry tore off his robes and threw them over the back of his chair, his hands flying to his belt buckle.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking you up on your offer, of course!”

“WHAT?! That wasn’t an offer . . . I . . . I was answering your stupid question, that’s all!”

Harry opened his fly and pushed his underwear down. He hadn’t been lying. He was painfully hard and wet and within a hair’s breadth of coming . . .

“I specifically heard, ‘I would suck your cock, Potter.’ Believe me, I would not imagine such a thing.” Harry almost laughed out loud at his little joke.

“I did not say ‘Potter,’” Malfoy hissed.

“All right. Whatever. Maybe I’m embellishing a tad. But you _did_ say you’d suck my cock, and here it is, Malfoy. Get on your knees and start sucking.”

Malfoy’s gaze flickered back and forth between Harry’s face and his straining erection so quickly and for so long that Harry wondered if it were possible to sprain one’s eyeball muscles. He began stroking himself, coating his palm in pre-come and then squeezing the head of his penis as it slipped in and out of his circling fingers. He groaned wantonly and closed his eyes. Whether or not Malfoy actually sucked him off, he was going to come, and it was going to feel fucking amazing.

“Give me that, for fuck sake,” growled Malfoy, and Harry’s eyes snapped open with surprise. Malfoy slid off his chair and dropped to his knees next to the bars as Harry stepped closer and pushed his prick down so its tip was exactly level with Malfoy’s mouth.

“Merciful _fuck_ . . .” Harry moaned as he watched Malfoy stick out a preternaturally pointed tongue to probe open his slit and lick at another drop of come as it squeezed forth. “You had better not bite me, Malfoy. Because so help me, I’ll . . .”

Malfoy rocked back on his heels and looked up at Harry through his limp, too-long fringe.

“Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘Oh, Malfoy, please bite me as hard as you can. I get off on the feel of teeth. Bite me, Malfoy! Bite me!’”

His voice was a mocking, nerve-fraying falsetto, and Harry almost punched him. But just before he could figure out the right angle to plunge his fist through the bars, Malfoy sank his mouth down on Harry’s cock and sucked and swallowed with abandon. And just as Harry’s mind started to shut down, he thought, _there is simply no way Malfoy’s never done this before_ . . .

Lost completely in the sensation of Malfoy’s mouth, Harry let his head fall back and reached blindly through the bars to grasp Malfoy’s face, combing his fingers shakily through Malfoy’s soft damp hair. The wet sounds that Malfoy was making, and Harry’s grunts of exertion seemed overly loud in the small cell, turning Harry on even more.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s it, Malfoy. Fuck, but you’re good at this. Should have guessed you’d be a talented cocksucker . . . that’s it. That’s it. A little faster . . . Oh. God!”

Harry expected Malfoy to pull away when he came, but he didn’t. Instead he swallowed every last drop, and kept swallowing around each of Harry’s spasms until Harry thought he’d pass out. His vision had telescoped dangerously as it was, and bright spots danced in the corners of his eyes. He wrenched himself from Malfoy’s mouth and staggered backwards until he collapsed in his chair, his chest heaving as though he’d just run a mile, flat-out.

“Fuck!” he gasped, pulling off his glasses and dragging both hands over his face and through his hair. “Malfoy . . . _Fuck_!”

Finally, after several minutes, Harry felt his heart rate and breathing return to normal, and he dropped his hands from his face, reaching for his glasses. And thank Merlin he did because he was able to catch a glimpse of Malfoy, balanced on the edge of his chair, knees spread wide, and stroking himself frantically through his robes with his bound hands. His head was thrown back so all Harry could see was his pale throat and pointy chin, but he watched with held breath as Draco arched his back, lifting his arse off the seat, and thrust against his own hands, coming with a shuddering gasp.

Malfoy collapsed back into his chair and nearly slid to the floor, his head still thrown back and lolling slowly from side to side. In the ensuing quiet, Harry realised he was hard again already, and would be willing to offer Malfoy just about anything – including his unconditional freedom – if Malfoy would only let Harry fuck his arse.

It was an alarming thought, indeed.

“Nice try, Malfoy.”

Malfoy lifted his head with what looked like great difficulty and gazed glassy-eyed at Harry’s face.

“What do you mean, ‘Nice try’? You got off, didn’t you? I don’t see that there was any ‘try’ about it.”

“I meant, nice try at winning your freedom by seducing me. Too bad it won’t work.”

Malfoy laughed a tired humourless laugh.

“Besides,” Harry continued. “Your little scheme would have backfired anyway because if you really had managed to seduce me, I’d have wanted much more to keep you locked up here with me where I can fuck you than set you free and lose you.”

“Well, you know me. Not nearly as smart as I look.”

Harry watched him as he struggled to sit up, only to slump to the side again after a couple minutes. Malfoy must be exhausted. Shit, Harry felt exhausted after his orgasm, and he’d had a full night’s sleep! Malfoy had probably been awake for nearly thirty-six hours straight by now. Harry was surprised he even got it up under the circumstances, let alone creamed his trousers like it was going out of style . . .

“You hungry?”

Malfoy’s body jerked in a way that told Harry that he must have drifted off to sleep.

“Huh?” he asked blearily.

“I asked whether you’re hungry.”

“More tired than hungry,” Malfoy murmured, his head falling back as though he could no longer trust his neck to hold it up. Harry gazed for several seconds at Malfoy’s pale throat, still splotchy from arousal and climax. He looked so vulnerable, and for a second, Harry wanted to open the cage, wrap a blanket around Malfoy’s shoulders and lower him gently to the floor so he could sleep undisturbed.

Harry blinked.

What the _fuck_ was he thinking?

Malfoy hadn’t answered him, and his head was still flung back. He was making small strangled gurgling sounds that may have been snores if his neck weren’t curved in such an unnatural and uncomfortable looking way . . .

Harry stood up and clapped his hands sharply. Malfoy’s whole body jerked, and this time he really did fall out of his chair. He blinked at Harry uncomprehendingly.

“Potter,” he murmured. “What are you doing here?”

Harry almost grinned because, well, honestly, under any other set of circumstances it would be endearing. But there should be nothing cute or endearing about interrogating a Death Eater, so Harry forced his face into a mocking expression.

“Wake up, sleeping fucking beauty,” he said. “I’m going to get myself something to eat, and if you want something, you’d better tell me now, otherwise you’ll be shit out of luck.”

Malfoy glared at him.

“I’d rather starve than eat something you gave me.”

“Well, then you’d better sick up that shot of pure protein I pumped down your throat, because that’s probably the caloric equivalent of a beef kebab.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“You wish, Potter.”

“Look,” Harry sighed. “I’ll get you a curry and something to drink. While I’m gone, why don’t you lie down and have a little nap. You’re worthless to me in the state you’re in.”

Malfoy blinked slowly at him, and Harry thought he could actually see the meaning of his words sink in. Malfoy stood and staggered to the corner where he dropped to his knees and sagged against the wall, slipping slowly and inexorably down until he virtually fell on his face. Probably asleep before he hit the floor.

Harry stood looking at him for a long moment, trying to make sense of the strange mixture of feelings that squirmed in his gut. Perhaps it had been stupid to take Malfoy as his first case, after all. Harry doubted very much that he would have been tempted to proposition anyone else but Malfoy. Malfoy, who had always been Harry’s erotic Achilles’ heel. He knew that sexual humiliation was a time-honoured and exceptionally useful interrogation technique, but he was not at all clear on whether sexual contact that was evidently mutually desired had any kind of beneficial effect.

 _Mutually desired_.

Harry walked down the corridor, his head down and brow furrowed. He certainly hadn’t expected Malfoy to respond with anything but horror and shame – a result that would have been well within the spectrum of desired results. But clearly Harry had been wrong. Whether or not, after a bit of sleep, Malfoy remembered this . . . encounter with chagrin, the fact remained that at the time, he’d clearly wanted it. Which meant . . . which _had_ to mean . . . that this wasn’t the first time Malfoy had thought of Harry sexually. One just didn’t respond like that to someone about whom one felt disgust or even neutral . . .

Which means . . .

Harry punched the buttons on the lift furiously. This was beyond ridiculous. Malfoy was a fucking prisoner of war, for Merlin’s sake! At the very least, he was involved in financial endeavours that benefited Voldemort, and at the most . . . well, how unlikely was it that Malfoy had murdered people? Not very, Harry thought. He’d already shown the willingness, if not necessarily the ability, when he’d confronted Dumbledore that night in the Astronomy Tower. What was Harry doing wondering if Malfoy wanked over him, like Harry did over Malfoy. Or, Merlin forbid, whether Draco had had some kind of frustrated crush on Harry at school. Because although Harry would admit to having wanted Malfoy sexually, he would never ever admit, under any circumstances, that he’d actually had _feelings_ of some kind for Malfoy . . .

“Harry!”

He’d been so deep in thought that Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard his name shouted from the far end of the corridor just as he stepped out of the lift. He turned and saw Hermione bearing down on him in that half-walk half-run with which she always moved.

“Harry,” she said again, breathlessly. “I just came down to look for you . . .”

“So, it’s true,” he said, his voice cool. “You’re working for the PPD now.”

She peered up at him from beneath her hectic fringe.

“Yes, I am,” she said firmly, indicating that she had no intention whatsoever of apologising for the fact. They glared at each other for a moment, but at last her eyes softened and grew sad.

“Can we _please_ try to put the past behind us,” she said imploringly.

Harry frowned at her.

“Hermione, you got me fired . . .”

She sighed. “Harry, I didn’t get you fired. If I can be said to have done anything, I got you reassigned . . .”

“Which, if you care to know, was actually _worse_ than getting fired!”

“Please, Harry. There’s no need to raise your voice . . .” She glanced around and took him by the elbow. Reluctantly, Harry let her lead him into an empty conference room.

“Look, I know you’re angry at me. You’ve made that abundantly clear by returning my Owls unopened for the past ten months. I’m not even sure anymore that I blame you after I found out . . .”

Her voice trailed off, and she looked away for a moment before returning her eyes to his.

“You made me sound like a sick murdering _freak_ in that report of yours, Hermione. You made it sound like I was unhinged and out of control. After everything we went through in school, how could you _not_ think that would hurt me?”

Her eyes brightened with tears.

“I _did_ know it was going to hurt you, and I knew you’d probably end up hating me for it. But, Harry, I did it for your own good . . .”

He glared at her even harder.

“Do you have any idea how patronising that sounds?”

She nodded and then dropped her head.

“Yeah. If our places were reversed, I’d hate me too.”

Harry sighed heavily.

“I don’t hate you, Hermione. I never have, and I never will. I was . . . _am_ still hurt. But I’m also not surprised to hear you did what you did out of a sad, twisted idea of what’s best for me.”

She glanced at his face and realised he was smiling. She smiled back a small tentative smile.

“If I had known . . .”

“Well, now you’ll know for the future.”

They stood looking at each other for a long awkward moment.

“Can I . . . can I give you a hug?” she asked.

Harry answered by pulling her into his arms. The past ten months had been hell, what with being reassigned to a desk job, Ron breaking it off with Hermione out of loyalty to him, and then the slow dawning sense of loss that had sunk in after the initial anger and betrayal had started to recede . . .

“Let’s not fight anymore,” he whispered into her ticklish hair. “I miss you.”

She sniffled and burrowed deeper into his arms.

“I miss you, too. And Ron.”

“Well, I’m not going to get involved there. It was against my advice that he ended things between you two in the first place, so it’s clear he doesn’t listen to me anyway . . .”

“Stubborn git,” she murmured against his shoulder.

“Let’s grab lunch together sometime. The three of us, and just go from there, okay?”

She nodded and drew back, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robes. As she did so, Harry caught a glimpse of her PPD badge. He groaned.

“So, it is true, then,” he said, gesturing at the badge with his chin. “You’re One Of Them now.”

Hermione shrugged in an _almost_ -apology.

“What can I say? As soon as the Minister signed that outrage of a mandate . . .”

“NEMESIS?”

“Yes, that one.” She shuddered theatrically. “After she signed NEMESIS, I knew I couldn’t just advocate from the outside and circulate petitions and hold rallies. No one listens to people who do those things anyway . . .”

She smiled self-deprecatingly. 

“You finally realised that?” Harry asked, but gently.

“Yeah, I know. Took me awhile . . .”

Harry snorted. “I’ll say!”

“Anyhow. I decided the best place to fight my battles is from within the system rather than without. So, here I am.”

“You do realise what department I’m working for now, don’t you?” Harry asked carefully.

Hermione winced.

“DENT. Yeah, I know. And not only that, but I hear you’re Jennings’ protégée.”

“Well, I don’t know about that . . .”

“Harry,” she said, grabbing his arms. “He’s a madman! Promise me . . .”

Harry scowled and pulled away.

“You’re treading on awfully thin ice for someone I wasn’t even speaking to ten minutes ago. Watch it, Hermione. I mean it. I don’t want to fight with you anymore, but neither will I take shit from you. Either you respect my choices and have a little bit of faith in me and the fact I’m not a _total_ amoral degenerate, or this renewed friendship isn’t going to last.”

Hermione sighed and looked down at her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You’re right. It’s just . . . Harry, do you even _know_ what happened down there last night?”

“Yeah. A very unfortunate accident.”

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide with what Harry could only describe as burgeoning horror.

“An _accident?!_ ”

Harry felt himself grow angry once more. Clearly, this just wasn’t going to work.

“Yes, Hermione. An accident. The bloke fainted in the showers and hit his head.”

“Is that what they told you or is that what you believe?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Both,” he snapped. “It’s what I was told, and because it was told to me by people I trust, I believe it.”

“But did you _see_ the man?”

Harry shook his head. “No, and I don’t need to . . .”

But Hermione was suddenly opening her briefcase and flipping intently through files. Finally, she pulled one out and shoved it at Harry’s chest. Her cheeks were pink with indignation.

“Take a look at the photographs in that folder, Harry Potter, and if you still think that what happened down there last night while you were safe at home in your pyjamas watching the telly was an accident, then . . . well, maybe we should just skip that lunch you proposed!”

Reflexively, Harry took the folder from her hand, but before he had a chance to respond, she stormed out of the conference room and got on the lift, punching the fourth floor button repeatedly. The last glimpse he had as the doors hissed shut was her too pale face and too bright cheeks and her eyes staring obstinately at the floor display above her head.

Harry sighed and looked down at the folder in his hands. He just had to face the facts. Hermione would never change. He sighed again and went to stick the folder she’d given him into his own stack when a photograph slipped loose and fluttered to the floor. Harry knelt to retrieve it, but froze the instant he was close enough to make out what it depicted. And then he was searching frantically for the nearest rubbish bin, his mouth suddenly flooded with vomit.

As he leaned into the bin, gasping and retching and spitting his hours-old breakfast onto a bunch of discarded memos, the inevitable sank in. It _hadn’t_ been an accident. There was just no way in hell it could have been.

 

Harry closed the door to the cell quietly behind him and sat down in his chair.

Malfoy was asleep. It looked as though he hadn’t even stirred from the uncomfortable-looking position in which Harry had left him. His head was cushioned on his bound arms, his hair half-covering his face. With every exhale, he made the faintest sighing sound, and it was that, more than anything, that let Harry know how deeply he slept. There was no way an even semi-conscious Malfoy would allow himself to make that sound in Harry’s presence.

Harry sighed and set the bag containing Malfoy’s lunch on the floor. He, himself, had gone without. Even the thought of food made Harry’s stomach churn again, and just the smell of Malfoy’s curry was making him feel ill . . .

“Hey, Malfoy! Wake up!”

Malfoy murmured and rolled over on to his back, but he didn’t wake. Harry gazed at his long lean body and the glimpses of skin beneath torn cloth and felt nothing but sick.

“Malfoy!” he shouted. “Wake the fuck up and eat your lunch!”

Malfoy woke, sputtering and coughing, in the middle of one of his sighs/exhalations. He twisted his head around to glare at Harry.

“Thank you for the dulcet wake-up call, Potter.”

“You’re lucky I let you fall asleep at all,” Harry grumbled, refusing to meet Malfoy’s gaze.

“My, my,” Malfoy drawled. “Did someone have a bad lunch break? What’s the matter, Potter? Were you reprimanded for having a messy desk? The tardiest reports? Or perhaps for being the worst interrogator the illustrious Aurors have ever known . . .”

“Shut it and eat your lunch,” Harry growled, shoving the take-away bag through the bars.

“I told you,” Malfoy said, arrogant disdain oozing from every syllable. “I won’t eat anything you give me.”

Harry rose so suddenly from his chair that it toppled backward with a clatter that echoed unnervingly in the tiny room.

“You will,” he snarled. “If I have to shove it down your throat.”

Malfoy smirked.

“I see,” he said. “Kind of like you did with your prick earlier. How nice.”

Harry felt himself turn a hot crimson as the all-but-forgotten recollection of Malfoy’s ardent mouth and heavy-lidded eyes returned to him full force. He turned away and picked up his chair, willing his face to cool. At last he sat down and met Malfoy’s gaze.

“We don’t starve people here,” he said but only because he had to say something. “Besides,” he added with a harder tone. “You’ll need to keep up your strength if you’re going to be of any use to me.”

Malfoy smirked and winked lasciviously before digging into his curried lamb. Harry noticed – thankfully for the first time – that Malfoy’s teeth were as pointy and sharp-looking as his tongue.

Despite his earlier protestations, Malfoy ate like a pig, finishing every last bite of his curry and then using his fingers to mop up the residue and then licking them clean with an infuriating thoroughness that left Harry squirming in his chair. After that he drank the box of Muggle fruit squash that Harry had included as an insult. But Malfoy didn’t seem to notice or care. He used the ridiculous little straw to slurp up every last drop. Noisily. At last he leaned back against the wall and belched contentedly. Harry stared.

“Did you just belch?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Malfoy as though he were speaking to an idiot. “It’s called a bodily function, Potter. Relieves the pressure of air from . . .” 

Harry glared at him.

“I _know_ what a belch is, Malfoy. I just didn’t think stuck-up pureblood prats were allowed to be vulgar in polite company . . .”

“Who ever said I was in polite company?”

Harry rolled his eyes but refused to take the bait.

“Oh, get over yourself, Potter. We’re in a fucking jail cell. This morning before you arrived, some bloke in a Muggle astronaut suit and gas mask came down here and covered every surface with some kind of toxic cleaning substance, and last night, the mill of the soap was so coarse, it almost took my skin off . . .”

Harry winced.

“Then stay away from the showers,” he said.

“And what? Wallow here in my own filth? Thank you, but no.”

“Look,” said Harry, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to stay away from the showers. At least for a couple of days . . .”

“Oh right,” drawled Malfoy. “Those dangerous taps that are known to attack . . .”

“Shut it, Malfoy!” Harry hissed. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

Malfoy laughed. Not a sarcastic laugh, but an honest-to-goodness belly laugh.

“Oh, that’s rich, Potter. As far as I can tell, the only reason I’m still here and haven’t been permitted to see an advocate is because you people want me to talk. Now you’re telling me to ‘shut it . . .’”

Harry scrubbed his face with his hands. It was obvious that he was not in control of this situation, at least not in the state he was in at the moment.

“All right,” he said at last, dropping his hands. “If you’re such a smart arse, then let’s hear something.”

Malfoy wiped his mouth on his sleeve and gazed up at the ceiling as though Harry had just asked him to repeat something he’d already said a million times.

“Like I told you _yesterday_ , I was walking down Diagon Alley, minding my own business, when . . .”

Harry lunged forward, quick as a striking viper, reached through the bars and seized Malfoy’s ankle. As soon as his fingertips found flesh, he squeezed. Hard. Malfoy squawked in surprise and kicked his leg to escape. But Harry held on.

“Quit _fucking_ with me, Malfoy,” he spat, feeling suddenly desperate without knowing exactly why.

“I thought that’s what you wanted, Potter,” Malfoy spat back.

Harry blushed again, but he did not let go.

“Look,” he said, his voice low and fierce as though he were trying to prevent anyone from overhearing his words. “I know you know something. Just give it to me, and I’ll see if I can get you out of here. Maybe not out out, but at least out of interrogation detention . . .”

“Oh, and like I would believe you,” Malfoy snarled. “Nice try, Potter. Trick me once, shame on you. Trick me twice . . .”

“I am not trying to trick you this time! I mean it!” Harry’s voice was still low, and he could hear the edge of desperation in it.

“And why on Demeter’s fertile green earth would I believe you? Give me one good reason!”

“Because . . . because I made you come,” Harry blurted out. “And you made me come . . .”

“First of all, Potter, you did not make me come. I made _myself_ come. A very important difference. Second of all, it’s hardly like we made love on a rose-petal strewn bed. You practically raped me . . .”

“I did _not_ rape you!” Harry cried, hot with indignation and shame. “I was going to wank myself. It was you who said . . .”

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“Whatever. My point is that it was hardly a merging of souls. Fuck, it was hardly a merging of _anything_ . . .”

Harry just stared at him, his chest heaving.

“You are insane, Malfoy. I hope you do know that. What the hell are you talking about? _A merging of souls_ , for Merlin’s sake? I just meant that we . . . we shared something . . . personal . . . something intimate . . .”

But Harry had to stop because Malfoy was now rolling around on the floor of his cell laughing, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, this is too funny!” he gasped. “I think I may not survive it. Oh gods! Oh, my sides! Ow! Too funny. You’re _torturing_ me, Potter. Ow!”

Harry let go of his ankle and stood up, glaring down at a convulsed and red-faced Malfoy. At last he stopped laughing and peered up at Harry, the tears still streaming down his cheeks.

“Good boy,” he gasped. “You made the evil Death Eater cry. Now go wherever that pathetic little cubicle I’m sure you sit in is and write a report to that effect. A gold star for Harry Potter. The great. The magnificent. The hopeless sap. Shit, if I’d known it was _that_ easy, I would have offered to suck you off ages ago.”

Harry had had enough. For the first time in weeks there was nothing on earth he wanted to do more than go out to his favourite pub and get utterly shit-faced. Maybe that way he could forget Malfoy’s mocking words, his back arched in orgasm, the tiny sighs he made when he slept. Maybe that way he could forget Hermione’s look of disappointment and disgust, and the smell of his sick in the stale air of an empty conference room. Maybe that way he could forget the runnels of blood, the fragments of skull, the spattered brains . . . .

Suddenly, Harry swayed on his feet. He grabbed the bars and closed his eyes before he could be swept away by a wave of nausea, but just before he did, he caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s face, his expression quizzical. And then, just before he fainted, he heard Malfoy’s voice, the concern unfeigned and unmistakable.

“Potter? . . . Potter? . . . Harry? Somebody! Help!”

 

“Care to tell me what happened yesterday afternoon?”

Harry looked from his lap where he was studiously considering the fingernails of his clasped hands and fixed his eyes on Jennings’ face.

“I fainted.”

Jennings watched him for several moments, and to his chagrin, Harry found it impossible to meet his gaze. His eyes kept flicking away as though repelled by opposing magnets.

“I gathered that from the Healers’ report. But what I would like to know is why.”

Harry swallowed.

“I . . . I was sick around one o’clock, and then I didn’t eat lunch. I guess I just got light-headed all of a sudden . . .”

Harry’s voice trailed off when Jennings made no effort to respond.

“I’m curious,” Jennings said after several moments. “How is it that your detainee . . .” He paused and flipped open a file on his desk. “One, Draco Malfoy, knows your name?”

Harry felt an odd flicker of panic in his gut, which was soon accompanied by a bone-deep instinct to lie. He didn’t know why, exactly, but he had come to trust his instincts over the years, and this one was more insistent and demanding than he’d felt in months . . .

“I . . . er . . . I mean . . . he . . .”

“Let me just warn you, Harry. If you are considering lying to me, I would advise against it. As you well know, my job is . . . ferreting out lies, shall we say.”

Something about his boss’s tone and his stretched use of the word “ferret” made Harry’s heart sink. But for whom – himself or for Malfoy – he wasn’t sure.

“You and Mr. Malfoy are the same age. Do you know one another from school?”

Harry nodded, feeling defeated.

Jennings sighed and leaned forward, resting his hands flat on the top of his desk and pinning Harry beneath his relentless gaze.

“Now, Harry. Don’t you think that would have been a useful piece of information to have shared with me beforehand?”

“I didn’t know an interrogator shouldn’t know his detainee,” Harry replied, only lying a _little_ bit. It was true that Jennings had never told him as much, but then again he wasn’t stupid. Harry had had a pretty good idea from the first second that he set foot inside Malfoy’s cell that he should have turned the case over to Jennings . . .

“Well, it’s true in some cases and not in others,” said Jennings. “In cases involving a _brand new interrogator_ . . .” Harry winced as each word grew a decibel louder. “. . . I would say it’s a very bad idea. It is also . . . Harry, are you listening to me?”

Harry’s head snapped up. He hadn’t realised that he’d returned to examining his clasped hands.

“It is also a bad idea for an interrogator who is in love with his detainee . . .”

His shock was so great that Harry just about leapt to his feet.

“I am _NOT_ in love with Malfoy!”

Jennings tilted his head to the side almost quizzically and smiled.

“I never said you were. I was merely stating that _if_ an interrogator were in love with, or had romantic feelings for, his detainee, it’s a bad idea for him to act as the interrogator. It just gets too messy, too complicated. If, on the other hand, the feelings go the other way – for instance, the detainee is in love with the interrogator, but the interrogator feels nothing in return, it may actually be _good_ for the interrogator to work that case. After all, his detainee’s mind is already open to him, already subject to his influence and control . . .”

Harry swallowed back a surge of dizziness when he imagined – _again_ – a less metaphorical image of an “open mind.” A head, split open, and seeping blood. Eyes open. Bulging. Staring. . . . He reached up impulsively to cover his mouth.

Jennings stopped speaking and gazed at him questioningly.

“Are you quite sure you’re feeling better? Perhaps you should take sick-leave . . .”

“No, I’m fine,” Harry replied, too quickly.

Jennings nodded slowly.

“Well, I can’t force you to take a day off if you don’t want to. But perhaps it would be best if I took over the Malfoy file from here . . .”

Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to count to ten before responding.

“I would really prefer keeping it, sir,” he said at last. “It’s my first case after all, and I’ve made quite a bit of headway,” he added, trying to sound bright and chipper. “I think Malfoy . . . I mean, the subject is ready to crack. Just give me another few days . . .”

“All right,” said Jennings, smiling. “I’ll give you until the end of the day tomorrow. After that, if you still haven’t got any useful intelligence from him, I’ll take over. Fair enough?”

Harry swallowed again.

“Fair enough,” he replied and hoped his voice didn’t sound as hopeless as he felt.

 

 

“You look like shit, Potter.”

Malfoy’s tone was far too cheerful to be allowed. Especially when Malfoy was supposed to be a cowering detainee and Harry had the mother of all hangovers.

“Fuck off, ferret.”

“Oh, ouch. That one hurt.”

Harry sighed and pulled the chair away from the wall. This time he dispensed with the fussy settling in. Instead, he removed his robes, rolled up his shirt sleeves, turned the chair so that the back was facing Malfoy, and sat down, legs spread wide, straddling it. He heard Malfoy suck in a breath, and despite feeling like warmed-over death, Harry’s cock twitched in response.

“ _Someone_ ’s all business this morning,” Malfoy breathed appreciatively.

Harry scowled at him.

“Why were you selling those vials?”

“What vials?”

“The vials of Death-Sleep Philtre.”

“I told you, I wasn’t even _in_ Knockturn Alley. How long will it take for that to sink in through your thick skull, Potter?”

Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment before fixing Malfoy with his most penetrating stare. To his heartfelt satisfaction, Malfoy actually gasped.

“Look, Malfoy. I’ll be straight with you. You’re my first case. I am sure they gave you to me because the shit they caught you doing was, at least in the whole scheme of things, pretty minor. They wouldn’t have given me your case if they believed you had information about something huge – like a Death Eater raid or an assassination target or something like that. Moreover, we don’t have the prison space for people accused of selling illegal potions. Just give me something, and I’ll get you out of here . . .”

Malfoy’s face grew dark, and he glared at Harry.

“You already tried this one on me yesterday, Potty. It didn’t work then, and it’s not going to work now. You _tricked_ me! I told you the truth, and you pretended to feel sorry for me! You fucked with my _head_ , Potter! I’m not going to just turn around and forget. That was just about the worst thing you could have done to me. I gave you my trust and my thanks, and you threw it back in my face! Did that feel good? I don’t see how it could have, considering you’re the one with all the power here. Where’s the challenge, _Harry_? . . .”

Harry couldn’t help it. He felt himself flinch as his name left Draco’s lips. But if Draco noticed, he didn’t let on. He was too caught up in his indignation, his cheeks as flushed and his eyes as bright as Hermione’s had been . . .

“. . . but perhaps you _like_ kicking puppies. Perhaps you get off on it. Well, I refuse to be your puppy anymore, Potter. That was just about the worst thing you could have done to me . . .” He paused, breathing hard, and Harry watched as a shudder seemed to wrack his entire body. “The only worse thing you could do is rape me!”

Malfoy clapped his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide.

“Oh, shit!” he whispered, horror creeping into his voice. “I didn’t mean that! I meant, I _want_ you to fuck me. I’ve . . . I’ve been aching for it ever since I had my first wet dream. It’s the thing I’ve wanted most and could never have – your cock in my arse, pumping in and out of me, riding me like I was the only one you’ve ever fucked before . . . the only one you ever want to fuck again. That’s what I want, Potter. Give it to me!”

Harry just stared at him, completely thunderstruck. And as he did, tears welled in Malfoy’s eyes, and his chin wobbled like it had that first day, and . . .

“Holy shit,” he said. “You _actually_ mean it. Malfoy, you are perhaps the biggest idiot I know.”

As he continued staring at Malfoy, in awe of his unfathomable stupidity, a fat tear slid from the corner of Malfoy’s eye and ran down his cheek.

“I . . . I . . .” he said, his breath hitching dangerously. “No, you’ve got it all wrong, Potter! Didn’t you hear me? I said I _want_ you to fuck me . . .”

But Harry didn’t have to hear him say anything more because he already knew that he was witnessing the moment that Jennings had told him about. The moment – usually around this time, after more than fifty-six hours without sleep, when a detainee snaps. He thought he could virtually hear an audible cracking sound as he watched another tear slip from Malfoy’s other eye. Malfoy was just so tired and confused that he’d fucked up royally. This wasn’t the same thing as finally _breaking_ a man because Harry doubted that it had reached the point where Malfoy would sell his own mother into slavery for an hour of sleep. No, that was still a couple of days away at least. But a critical stage had been reached at last, and if Harry could just find a way to push it one step farther, maybe he could get Malfoy to tell him something useful, and then Harry could get him out of here before Jennings took over. Maybe he could save Malfoy . . .

Because Harry had decided, after reading through the folder Hermione had given him last night and talking with Jennings this morning, that he was going to do whatever it took to keep Jennings away from Malfoy. After he’d left his boss’s office, he’d gone to Ron’s private bathroom and locked himself in and _forced_ himself to figure out what he was feeling and decide what he was going to do. It wasn’t that he actually _liked_ Malfoy. Heavens, no! Malfoy was a spoiled, obnoxious prat who did horrible things to people Harry loved. But Harry had also decided over the past few days that Malfoy was not one of those murderers the Aurors dragged in after a raid. Malfoy was . . . well, he was just an idiot! Probably in the wrong place at the wrong time doing something stupid. Hell, even if he had been apprehended trying to sell Death-Sleep Philtre, there was no evidence in his file that he was doing it for Voldemort or for anyone associated with Voldemort . . .

If Malfoy was guilty, he was guilty of nothing worse than being an arrogant git who never could think through the consequences of his actions. But Jennings would never believe that. Once he’d learnt that Malfoy was Lucius’ son, his mind would be made up. There would be nothing Malfoy could say or do that would convince Jennings of his innocence. Harry knew. He had watched Jennings in action. The man simply did not take “no” for an answer. His underlying premise was that a person wasn’t _no_ t guilty if an Auror had picked him up, and all it took was the steady and persistent application of “coercive measures” to get the person to admit to something or give him something of value that could pay for his or her relief. But Harry doubted Malfoy could tell Jennings _anything_ of value. After all, who in their right mind would trust someone so utterly transparent with something secret? No one, that’s who!

Harry stared at Malfoy. He was weeping openly now, his face in his hands, and his narrow shoulders shaking pathetically. Merlin, he was a pampered little baby! He couldn’t even carry off a hunger strike for longer than a day, for god’s sake! Now, here he was crying like a man who had been in here _twice_ as long as he had. And why? Not because Harry had threatened to cut off his fingers or hunt down his friends and have their throats slit in their sleep. No, Malfoy was crying because he was afraid of getting a well lubricated cock shoved up his arse! It was just too easy. There was no way Harry’s conscience could survive if he allowed Malfoy to fall into Jennings’ hands. He had to do whatever was necessary to get Malfoy to talk to him, and if that meant fucking him, well, then . . . All Harry could say was that it was better than having your face stomped into the grate on a shower drain.

His mind made up, Harry stood and unbuckled his belt. Malfoy brought his head up like the crack of a whip.

“What . . . what are you doing, Potter?” he sniffled.

“What does it look like?” Harry asked quietly, almost gently.

“But . . . but you’re giving me what I want. Isn’t that the opposite of what you’re supposed to do? I thought you were suppose to deny me what I want and give me what I fear . . .”

“And that’s precisely what I’m about to do, Malfoy. Give you what you most fear.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“Shush,” Harry said, feeling suddenly – and oddly – just as tender as he was turned on. “You fucked up, Malfoy. You let it slip that the worst thing I could do to you is to rape you, and then you tried to pretend it was what you want. But, you see, I already know you were telling the truth the first time . . .”

“How do you know you’re not just convincing yourself of that because you want to rape me?” Malfoy asked angrily, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve.

Harry shook his head. This was not pretty, and it almost certainly wasn’t right. But if raping Malfoy would break him and get him to talk, then Harry wouldn’t have to hand him over to Jennings. It was the only way. A true Hobson’s choice.

“Come on, Malfoy,” he said. “Just relax. I’m not going to hurt you if you don’t struggle . . .”

Malfoy let out an angry sob that caused Harry to freeze in the middle of tugging off his trousers.

“Don’t do this. Please, Harry. _Please_!”

To his surprise – and utter shame, Harry felt the blood rush to his groin and his cock grow even stiffer. Malfoy’s use of his first name. The way he pleaded and begged. His eyes wide and bright with tears . . .

“Oh gods!” he groaned and kicked off his trousers. He was now completely naked, and his cock stood straight out before him, straining and jerking, desperate to be buried in the heat of Malfoy’s body. “Listen,” he said, the word almost a growl. “I know you don’t believe it, but I’m doing this for you. To help you . . .”

Malfoy sobbed. 

“You’re even sicker than I thought, Potter! Is there no end to your self-delusions? That’s it. Tell the victim that his brutal rape is in his best interests . . .”

“I am _not_ going to brutally rape you, Malfoy. Just do as I say, and this will all be over.”

Harry fumbled with the lock until at last he got the cage open and pulled Malfoy from his chair. He was shocked to encounter no resistance. Malfoy was nothing but a rag-doll in his hands. He came into Harry’s arms with a sob and hung there, his head on Harry’s shoulder and his damp cheek pressed against Harry’s neck.

“Shit,” he murmured. “You’re in a bad way, Malfoy . . .”

As quickly as he could and without releasing his arm from Malfoy’s waist, Harry transfigured his chair into a table and his tie into a length of rope. Gently, as though he were putting a sleeping child to bed, Harry lowered Malfoy until he was bent over with his chest pressed against the tabletop. He then bunched his robes under Malfoy’s pelvis to cushion his prick and severed the rope in half to bind Malfoy’s ankles to each table-leg. Finally, he banished Malfoy’s robes – what was left of them, that is – and uncuffed his wrists long enough to draw his arms behind his back and recuff them there.

The light in the cell was lurid and unflattering to say the least, but even in its unforgiving glow, Malfoy was breathtakingly beautiful. Just as Harry remembered him but even more so. The added years had given him definition, but he was still very much the same he’d been at Hogwarts. The cocky but still-shy boy – the same boy who had always turned toward the shower wall when it was time for him to soap his crotch. Harry had watched him do it: Every time without fail, Malfoy would stop talking shite and would turn around quickly, rubbing himself for a second and rinsing off, before joining in the talk again. No one else did that. Everyone else just scrubbed their balls, and it was no big deal. But not Malfoy. He’d always turn away. And it had nearly made Harry _faint_ with lust. That hint of shyness. The perfect behavioural compliment to the pink flush that would steal across his cheeks every time he caught Harry looking at him . . .

Harry groaned and knelt down before Malfoy’s arse, spreading his cheeks apart. And as he did so, Malfoy’s puckered little anus seemed to grow even smaller, as though it were trying to hide from Harry’s gaze. Harry leaned forward and licked it, and Malfoy sobbed.

Harry rocked back on his heels, but he didn’t let go of Malfoy’s arse. Just watching that tight little hole trying to squeeze itself into nonexistence was driving Harry out of his mind with desire.

“Are you a virgin, Malfoy? I don’t mean have you fucked anyone before. I mean, have you been fucked?”

“No,” came the whispered response.

“With a dildo?”

“No.”

“With a finger?”

“No.”

Harry suddenly saw white spots in front of his eyes and had to take a deep breath to calm himself. Somewhere, beneath the thrumming lust, a voice called out, begging him to stop while he still could, begging him to remember his humanity. Harry exhaled and opened his eyes. It was true. He could stop. He probably even should, but if he did, and Malfoy didn’t talk. Well, what would happen then? This was the only hint Malfoy had given him . . . the only clue as to how Harry could break him. And this was hardly needles under fingernails . . .

“Is that why you’re so afraid of having me in your arse? Are you afraid it’s going to hurt?” Harry asked.

A quiet “yes.”

Harry felt a wave of tenderness and intense protectiveness wash over him.

“I can’t promise you it won’t hurt at all, but I’ll try to be as gentle as I can.”

Malfoy let out another sob.

“Please,” he said. “Please don’t do this.”

But even if he’d wanted to, with every passing second it was rapidly getting to a point where there would be no way that Harry would be able to stop himself. So, instead of answering, instead of making promises he doubted he could keep, Harry leaned forward again and probed Malfoy’s hole with his tongue. Gently, he worked the tip into the impossibly tight ring of muscle and wriggled it, vividly aware of the myriad infinitesimal spasms he could feel as Malfoy’s body struggled not to open to him. But he was persistent and after several minutes, he was able to rim him properly, tracing the inside of Malfoy’s rectum and closing his lips over his anus. Every now and again, Harry was aware of sounds from somewhere above him, but with his blood pounding in his ears and the constant hum of his own arousal, he couldn’t make out what they were.

When he finally determined that his tongue wasn’t going to be enough to open Malfoy any farther, Harry rocked back on his heels again and cast a heavy-duty lubricating charm. Malfoy gasped at the sensation and then cried out when Harry pressed the pad of his index finger against his hole. Harry only had his finger half of the way in when Malfoy said, “All right, all right. I’ll talk!”

Harry swore under his breath. As much as he wanted Malfoy to talk, he also wanted to come so far up inside him that it would take hours to spill out again. But if Malfoy could give him something of value that he could take to Jennings, no matter how insignificant, Harry would release him. Even if it killed him in the process. After all, this was why he was doing this. Not because Malfoy wanted it, but because Harry was trying to break him. Taking a deep breath, Harry slid his finger a little deeper into Malfoy’s slick heat and said, “All right then. Talk.”

“You-Know-Who has a safe house in Wiltshire!”

Harry released his held breath.

“We already knew that, Malfoy. Have known it for years, in fact. Nice try, though. That’s the right idea at least. Now if you could just tell me something that wasn’t old news last year.”

Harry punctuated the end of his sentence by burying his finger in Malfoy’s arse. Malfoy sobbed and gasped and squirmed. Pretty much all at once. And again, Harry saw spots.

“But I don’t know anything else!” he cried.

“Not my problem,” said Harry, trying his best to sound cold and cruel. He pulled his finger out again slowly, watching Malfoy’s hole stretch along with it as it gripped him indignantly. He leaned forward and traced the flesh straining around his finger with the tip of his tongue, groaning as he felt Malfoy seize even tighter.

“Sweet merciful Venus,” Harry murmured. “You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you.” 

Somewhere and at some point, Harry had stopped telling Malfoy lies.

“MacNair is smuggling in illegally manufactured wands from the Ukraine!” Malfoy blurted.

“And distributing them to high-ranking Death Eaters,” said Harry, finishing the sentence for him.

Gently, he pushed his finger to one side and slid in a second one. Malfoy whimpered and tried to move away from Harry’s hand, but he was bound too tightly. Little did he know, though, that every time he moved, Harry was able to wriggle his fingers a little deeper, brushing his fingertips against the impossibly soft flesh of Malfoy’s rectum.

“You’ll be the ruin of me,” Harry moaned before leaning forward once more and tracing Malfoy’s anus with his tongue as it clutched and spasmed around his fingers. “I’ll never have a fuck like this ever again as long as I live.”

“Let me suck you off,” Malfoy said, frantically. “I swear I’ll make it last forever. It’ll be the best blow-job you’ve ever had . . .”

“Tempting,” Harry murmured. “But you’re making the same mistake again, Malfoy. Telling me what you’d prefer . . .”

Malfoy sobbed with frustration an instant before Harry’s fingers brushed his prostate. The sob ended in a gasp.

Harry couldn’t take it another second. He pulled his fingers from Malfoy’s arse and stood up. Standing, his legs spread and braced, Harry angled his cock and slid the head of it up and down the length of Malfoy’s crack. When at last it caught in the dimple of Malfoy’s hole, Harry pressed in . . .

Malfoy cried out and struggled violently, forcing Harry to seize his hips and hold them steady. But even before he sank deeper than the ridge of his foreskin, Harry had to stop. He was going to come in no time at all, and this would be over. Too soon. Too soon . . .

He forced himself to pull out of Malfoy’s body, and bent to lap up the sweat beading in the small of Malfoy’s back.

“Why . . . why did you stop?” Malfoy whimpered.

“Because I’m going to come before I’m even in you properly. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you open and ready for me.”

Harry dropped to his knees and started fingering Malfoy again, watching the muscles in Malfoy’s thighs tremble with each inward thrust.

“I . . . I . . .oh stop, stop, Potter. I’ll talk . . . ,” Malfoy was panting, and Harry ceased twisting his fingers in and out so that Malfoy could catch his breath.

“There’s going to be . . . an assassination attempt on the Minister . . .” 

“You mean there _was_ going to be an assassination attempt on the Minister. Fuck, Malfoy, you must have read that in last week’s _Prophet_.”

Merlin, but this was pathetic! It was obvious that Malfoy knew nothing. The things he was saying now were all public knowledge. He was grasping at straws, but it was clear he had nothing to tell or he would have said it by now . . .

Stop! The voice called to him again, although the word originated as a shout at its source in Harry’s heart but faded to little more than a whisper by the time it reached his lust-saturated brain. Stop! 

Summoning every ounce of will power he ever possessed, Harry pulled his fingers from Malfoy’s arse with a wet sucking sound and stood up. He felt light-headed and physically _sick_ with thwarted desire. Every nerve and instinct in his body screamed at him to consummate this act and empty his swollen balls in Malfoy’s body. He’d taken this way _way_ too close to the edge . . .

“I . . . I can’t do this . . .” he gasped. “I can’t . . . this isn’t right . . . You can’t tell me anything, Malfoy, because you don’t _know_ anything. From what I can tell, you’ve been doing nothing but hanging out at your manor eating bon-bons and ordering about house-elves . . . ”

There was a long silence. At last Malfoy spoke.

“Oh. My. God! Are you _fucking_ joking? Please tell me you’re joking, Potter!”

Harry stopped talking. Stopped thinking. It was as though Malfoy’s words were a stick in the spokes of his brain.

“ _Excuse me??_ ”

Malfoy made a noise that sounded scarcely human – kind of a snarling cry. It seemed to tear itself from his chest, making his previous protestations sound like nothing at all.

“You are _not_ going to not fuck me, Potter. That is just not an option here.”

Harry had never felt so confused in his entire life.

“But I thought . . . You said. . . .”

Malfoy made that sound again, but this time louder.

“I was _lying_ , Potter. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Have you even _noticed_ how fucking hard I am? What do you want?” he growled. “What do you _need_? What do I have to say to get you to fuck me?”

“What? . . . What do you mean?” Harry stammered. “I was going to fuck you to get you to say something useful so I could get you out of here, Malfoy. But you don’t have anything useful to say. You can think what you want of me, but I’m not a complete monster. I . . . I can’t do this and live with myself . . . I’m not . . . _Fuck!_ ”

Harry collapsed against the wall and covered his face with his shaking hands.

“Look,” he said at last. “I’ll still get you out of here. You don’t have to let me fuck you for your freedom, Malfoy. I’m not that kind of man . . .”

Malfoy gave a bark of hysterical laughter.

“Fine,” he said. “You want me to say something useful, I’ll say something useful. But on one condition . . .”

Harry banished the ties that bound Malfoy’s legs.

“What? Potter, what the fuck are you doing? Aren’t you going to even listen to my condition for fuck sake?”

“But . . . ,” said Harry. There was just no end to the confusion Malfoy was making him feel. “I’m releasing . . .”

“ . . . On one condition,” Malfoy shouted, drowning out the rest of Harry’s words. “You fuck me into this table _now_ , Harry Potter! So, put those fucking bonds back on me and get to it! And if you finger fuck me one more second, I swear to Merlin I will suddenly develop the ability to do wandless magic and hex your balls off! You have until the count of three, Potter. One . . . Two . . .”

Realising he no longer had even a modicum of control over the situation, Harry flicked his wand and bound Malfoy’s ankles to the legs of the table once again. Somewhere along the way everything had ceased to make sense. He had no idea what he was doing any longer – not a fucking clue. Every plan and scheme and act and moral justification had flown out the window. He couldn’t even tell any longer which of them was the interrogator and which was the detainee. Like a play whose script suddenly ended mid-act, Harry didn’t have a clue what he was doing or even what he should be doing. And suddenly, in the midst of all the world-tilting swirl of confusion, one thing became clear. One thing alone. He wanted Draco Malfoy like he had never wanted anything in his entire life.

Harry pushed himself away from the wall and moved to position himself behind Malfoy. He leaned forward until his chest was pressed against Malfoy’s back and his lips brushed Malfoy’s ear when he spoke.

“I’ll confess, I have no idea what you’re doing, Malfoy. I’m so tangled up in my own head games, I can’t tell who’s playing who now. But I swear to you that I’ll get you out of here. Whether or not you let me fuck you. So, if you don’t really and truly want me to, then tell me now, before it’s too late . . .”

Malfoy’s whole body shook beneath Harry’s as Harry’s lips caressed his ear with each word. He arched his back as far as he could to grind his arse into Harry’s groin.

“In the name of everything you hold sacred, Potter,” he panted. “Fuck. Me. _Now!_ ”

Harry pushed himself up and took hold of his cock. Spreading Malfoy’s arse he gasped to see that shy little hole open and begging for him, and before he had time to think about this change in Malfoy’s . . . demeanour, he re-cast the lubrication charm and thrust in.

Malfoy cried out, his voice ringing against the cell walls.

“Oh, oh gods! Deeper, Harry. Please!”

But Harry was already buried to his balls in Malfoy’s welcoming body. Sliding his hands off Malfoy’s hips, he grasped his buttocks and spread them, working his pelvis closer to Malfoy and pumping his hips with short, quick thrusts. Straining, his back beaded with sweat, Malfoy arched his spine and somehow, amazingly, Harry felt himself sink even deeper. Malfoy cried out again and clenched his muscles, gripping Harry’s cock in a perfect seal . . .

Harry felt his knees weaken, and for a fleeting second he was _sure_ he was going to pass out.

“Fuck, Malfoy,” he groaned. “There is _no way_ you’re a fucking virgin!”

Malfoy laughed a breathless laugh, using every inch his bonds permitted to circle his hips and hump his arse on Harry’s cock like a cat in heat.

“Ah, but you _wanted_ me to be,” he gasped.

Harry stood on his tiptoes and angled his cock as straight as possible. Taking a deep breath, he pulled almost all of the way out and then thrust back in so hard that the table slid about a foot forward, and Harry felt himself suddenly bereft of Malfoy’s body.

“Fuck,” he murmured and then said a quick sticking spell. “Fucking table.”

Malfoy laughed another breathless laugh that ended in a strangled cry when Harry thrust into him once again.

“Just fuck me, Harry,” he gasped. “Let go and fuck me. God, you have no idea how long I’ve waited . . . .” 

Malfoy cried out again as Harry spread his arse once more and worked himself in to the root with a dozen sharp quick thrusts.

“ . . . You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this . . .”

But Harry was only distantly aware of Malfoy’s words. He could feel his orgasm building, and it was only a matter of a minute or two now . . .

“Draco . . . I want to make you come . . .”

Malfoy gave a hiccupping cry, snapping his hips as hard as he could, and Harry felt every muscle in Malfoy’s body, strung as tight as a violin string, suddenly release in a violent spasm.

“Harry . . . I’m coming! Don’t stop! Oh God, don’t stop . . . The Dark Lord . . . is in Reedley Hallows . . . Oh God! . . . a house at the end of . . . of . . . Netherwood Road . . . _Oh!_ . . . on the Brun River . . . Harry! _Oh God . . .!_ ”

And suddenly Harry could feel it. Malfoy’s orgasm. It wracked his whole body, shivering in every bone and nerve and sinew. It took Malfoy completely, and Harry actually clung to him, feeling as though the force of it might literally sweep Malfoy away like a flood-cresting river. His rectum gripped Harry’s cock fiercely, and Harry cried out from the sensation that was almost pain, but not quite. And like a lit match touched to a wick, it triggered Harry’s own orgasm, and he bore down, fucking Malfoy for all he was worth.

“Draco,” he said, grinding out the syllables of the name on his final shuddering thrusts. “Draco . . .”

He collapsed bonelessly on to Malfoy’s back, and they lay there panting and soaked in sweat as Harry’s cock slowly softened and slipped out of Malfoy’s body, accompanied by a wet splatter on the tile floor.

“I have no fucking idea what just happened,” Harry said, realising only after the words left his mouth that it was the truest, most honest thing he’d ever said to a lover after sex.

Malfoy laughed, and Harry could feel the vibrations of the sound in the body still laid out beneath him.

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” he said gently. “But that’s okay.”

Harry shook his head, partially in confusion and partially in what he could only describe as affection, and pushed himself off of Malfoy. With a flick of his wand he released Malfoy completely, even his bound hands, and Malfoy rolled over on to his back with a groan and rubbed his wrists. Harry stood staring for a long moment at his still half-hard cock and the shiny smear of come on his belly before bending down and licking Malfoy clean. When he finished and looked up, Malfoy had covered his face with his hands.

“No matter what they end up saying . . . ,” he murmured through his fingers, his voice rough with emotion and desire. “You _did_ torture me, Potter, and don’t you fucking forget it.”

Harry had no idea what he was talking about, and no idea who “they” were, but he was pretty sure he knew what Malfoy meant when he said torture because Malfoy was hard again, and his cock gleamed with Harry’s spit in the lurid light.

Feeling suddenly . . . and oddly . . . guilty, Harry merely whispered. “I said I’d get you out of here, Malfoy, and I meant it.”

 

 

“So . . . .”

Harry watched as Jennings frowned at his report and took a long sip of coffee from his new DENT mug.

“This Malfoy chap claims You-Know-Who is in a house in some weedy suburb north of Manchester?”

Harry nodded and then cleared his throat.

“That’s right, sir.”

“You know, of course, that we have no means of verifying this . . .”

Harry shifted in his chair.

“. . . and even if we did, why the fuck would we believe this prick? I mean, come on, Harry! What else did he give you that might actually lead you to believe that this . . . nobody . . . has a fucking clue where the Darkest Wizard in British history is hiding? Our best Aurors have been trying to track him since day-one without an ounce of success. I’ve interrogated top-tier Death Eaters. Not one of these efforts has resulted in getting us anywhere near You-Know-Who . . .”

Harry winced internally and hoped against hope that it didn’t show on his face. After all, Jennings was right. How, indeed, _would_ Malfoy have even the slightest clue of Voldemort’s whereabouts? Despite the specificity of the address, Harry _knew_ Malfoy had pulled it out of his arse . . . no pun intended, of course. Malfoy had given Harry no indication that he knew anything at all about Death Eater activities, let alone the hiding place of their paranoid sociopath of a Lord. But it was the only thing Malfoy had said that wasn’t immediately dismissible as public knowledge. It was the only thing he could take to Jennings to convince him the interrogation was complete . . .

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Jennings, and Harry forced himself to pay attention. “I’m not saying you did a bad job. You’re new at this, and you did the best you could. I have no doubt you’ll get better . . .”

“Sir,” interrupted Harry. “There is nothing more the . . . git can give us. It would be a waste of your time to go down there . . .”

Jennings smiled and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken, Harry. There may be nothing more a novice interrogator can get out of him, but I assure you that someone with my experience will have him talking again . . .”

Harry felt his stomach drop and the blood seep from his face as though someone had pulled a plug from a drain somewhere in his body.

“I can see you’re upset, Harry. I know it must seem like I’m criticising your abilities, but I promise you that I’m not. You’ve got the makings of a top-notch interrogator. This was your first case, for Merlin’s sake! Don’t be so hard on yourself . . .”

Harry didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry at the extent to which his boss had misinterpreted his reactions.

“. . . if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you watch. I’ll do the whole thing in the viewing room, and you can watch through the one-way window. Would that make it better? We can turn this into a training session, and after I’m finished with him, we can sit down together and go over my interrogation of him step-by-step. I’ll tell you why I did what I did . . .”

Suddenly, Harry realised that he had to get out of there, and fast. He could feel the sweat beading on his upper lip and his mouth fill with salvia. In another minute he was going to be sick . . .

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbled, rising quickly from his chair. “I’m not feeling very well . . . If you’ll please excuse me . . .”

Without waiting for a response, Harry ran to the door and wrenched it open. He barely made it to the nearest gents where he vomited into the sink. In one of the stalls behind him, he heard a toilet flush. Quickly he turned on the tap and rinsed his sick down the drain.

“Harry,” said Ron. “Are you all right?”

Harry’s heart flooded with relief when he heard his best friend’s voice. He gave Ron a shaky smile in the mirror.

“Yeah, just a bit hung over . . . ,”

Ron looked at him, a frown creasing his brow.

“Usually when you’ve been drinking, you take a Hang-Over Serum in the morning . . .”

Harry laughed tiredly.

“You’re not a half-bad detective. You should take the Auror exam . . .”

“Don’t try running circles around _me_ , Potter. I know you too well.”

Harry winced at the use of “Potter” as the thought of what likely awaited Malfoy returned. He felt another surge of nausea and leaned over to spit in the sink.

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for this shite,” he said as much to his own reflection as to Ron.

“You mean interrogation work?”

Harry gave another tired laugh.

“I mean this whole fucking war.”

Ron snorted as if Harry had done nothing more than make one of his usual smart arse jokes, trying to get Ron to laugh and forget for a second he’s in a wheelchair and crippled for life.

“Aren’t we all, mate,” he said. “Aren’t we all.”

 

The initial surprise on Hermione’s face at being interrupted from her reading hardened to a full-on glare when she realised who it was who’d interrupted her.

“What do you want, Harry?”

Harry shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

“May . . . may I sit down?”

Hermione shrugged and gestured towards the chair on the other side of her desk.

“I looked at the file,” Harry said after several moments of awkward silence.

Hermione did not respond.

“You’re right. It couldn’t have been an accident.”

After another long moment, Hermione released a shaky breath.

“Someone beat him to death, Harry. Someone cracked his skull open repeatedly on a shower tap like a fucking egg.”

Harry nodded.

“I know.”

“And your . . . boss had the audacity to come up here and accuse _us_ of permitting atrocities, claiming that every time we ‘set a Death Eater free’ a child is murdered.” She paused, obviously trying to get her emotions under control. “He asked how we sleep at night. Whether we were able to wash the innocent blood off our hands . . .”

Harry sighed.

“I’m not defending him, Hermione, but you have to try to understand things from our perspective. These people are murderers. They won’t talk just because we ask them nicely. Sometimes you’ve got to do things to them that are . . . unpleasant . . .”

“Do you even _hear_ yourself, Harry?”

“Hermione,” he said fiercely. “Listen to me. This isn’t black and white. This is a whole lot of fucking grey. And most of the time the only question is _who_ ’s going to get fucked. Not if, but _who_ and _when_. You have to understand that. People are going to die. The question is whether they’ll be our people or his . . .”

Hermione sighed.

“I hear what you’re saying, Harry, but if you don’t mind, I’m not in a mood for a lecture on the morality of your . . . job at the moment. The Minister is going to sign a new executive mandate this afternoon. Apparently fourteen days of unfettered interrogation wasn’t enough for your boss. After five o’clock this afternoon, you folks will be able to hold people for an indeterminate period with no right to hear the charges against them and no right to speak to an advocate. Frankly, I’m not even sure why I should bother showing up for work tomorrow, when the Minister is more or less eliminating the entire _raison d’etre_ of this Department with a quill stroke.”

Harry just stared at her as the meaning of her words began to sink in.

“ _Indeterminate_ detention?”

Hermione nodded.

“For how long?”

Hermione laughed fondly.

“What do you think ‘indeterminate’ actually means, Harry?”

He smiled weakly.

“Look, I need your help,” he said at last. “Especially now I know what’s coming this afternoon.”

“All right, I’m listening.”

“It’s Malfoy.”

Hermione started, her eyes widening. 

“You have Malfoy down there?”

Harry nodded.

“We’ve had him for five days now. He’s my case . . . my first case, actually . . . ,”

Hermione chuckled.

“How fitting.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought, too. Anyhow. I’ve been grilling him since he came in . . . Nothing serious,” he added, glancing nervously at Hermione’s face and trying to anticipate her reaction.

“Really? I’m almost sorry to hear it.”

Harry actually laughed.

“You don’t _really_ mean that.”

“No, you’re right. When I say I respect the rights of all human beings to be free of torture and humiliation that includes even Malfoy.”

“Well, good,” said Harry, taking a deep breath. “Because Malfoy’s fucked.”

 _Literally_ , Harry’s brain supplied, but he ignored it and pressed on.

“Look, I know he’s a prat, but he’s an _innocent_ prat. The worst thing he’s guilty of is trying to sell illegal potions to a clerk at Borgin  & Burkes during store hours and in front of other customers . . .”

Hermione shook her head.

“Could he _be_ more stupid?”

“That’s the whole point,” Harry said in a rush. “He’s the same as he ever was. Nakedly ambitious and impetuous. An all-around high-class fuck-up. Hermione, the bloke can’t even lie to save his life! It’s pathetic actually. When I finally . . . cracked him, he started spouting all this stuff he probably read in the papers over his morning croissant. It was that sad!”

“I trust you told this to Jennings . . .”

“More or less,” said Harry. “Malfoy actually gave me one piece of information that I couldn’t immediately recognise as public knowledge, but it was so random and unlikely that Jennings isn’t even going to bother to pursue it. Shit, Hermione, he claims to know where Voldemort is hiding! And he blurted it out when . . . when what I was doing to him wasn’t even that bad.”

Hermione shook her head sadly.

“He’s just a fuckwit, Hermione. He’s not evil. I know he isn’t! I can just tell. But now Jennings is going to take over, and who knows what will happen . . .”

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”

Harry stopped mid-sentence and gazed at her for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “Yeah, I am. Especially after looking at this.” He dropped the file she had given him on her desk. “Help me get him out, Hermione. Please.”

Hermione smiled at him, and it took a minute before Harry realised the brightness in her eyes was not laughter, but tears.

“You’re one of us after all,” she whispered. 

Harry frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re one of the good guys.”

Harry smiled slowly and then nodded.

“Of course I am. Has it ever been otherwise?”

Hermione shook her head.

“No, it hasn’t. And I’m sorry I ever came to doubt that. Forgive me, Harry.”

He stood up and walked around her desk.

“How about another hug?” he said. “One that doesn’t end with one of us stomping off in a snit this time.”

Hermione smiled and rose from her chair.

“I never stopped loving you, Harry,” she murmured against his neck. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do. And the same goes for me. Now, what do you say? Will you help me with Malfoy or not?”

“You know I will,” she said. “Give me an hour, and I’ll have an emergency release signed by one of the few members of the Wizengamot who still believes in basic human rights.”

Harry pulled back and looked at her. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re the best,” he said fiercely. “I owe you one.”

She laughed.

“All for the sake of Draco Malfoy. Whoever would have imagined it!”

 

The lift took forever to get to the cell block. Harry tried not to scream with frustration as it stopped at every. single. fucking. floor. At last, it reached the basement, and he found himself all but running down the corridor.

He hadn’t seen Malfoy since yesterday. After Harry had untied him, he’d escorted Malfoy to the showers and dismissed the ever-present bear-men. And then he’d stood guard as Malfoy took the longest shower in the history of the world. When Harry had finally barked at him to hurry the hell up, he’d done _that thing_ of turning to the wall to wash himself, and Harry had felt as though he’d just been kicked in the stomach. And before he even realised what he was doing, he’d joined Malfoy under the spray and was _kissing_ him as the water soaked his clothes and left his shirt clinging to his skin. And then, of course, he’d had to get naked, and then he’d had to kiss Malfoy some more, and the next thing he knew, he was taking Malfoy for the second time up against the shower wall, and Malfoy was crying out his name, over and over, until every tile seemed to ring with “ _Harry! Harry! Harry!_ ”

He skidded to a stop in front Malfoy’s cell door, and it took him a whole second before he realised what was wrong. The door was open. And then it took another whole second to realise what this meant. Malfoy was gone. Harry spun around, frantically scanning the corridor from one end to another, and then suddenly he heard it.

An ear-splitting scream of pain.

Feeling his blood turn to ice in his veins, Harry turned and ran toward the sound, which he now realised came from the direction of the viewing room. He shoved the door open and suddenly found himself crammed into a tiny space with about a dozen bear-men and Aurors. He pushed his way frantically to the window in the front.

There, just as he’d feared, was Malfoy. He was naked and strapped to a chair, and Harry winced at how vulnerable he looked, and then winced again as he remembered how that same beautiful body had writhed, sweat soaked and flushed pink with arousal, under his. Harry swallowed as a wave of protectiveness washed over him – even fiercer than he’d felt yesterday in the grip of his desire. He clenched his fists and willed himself to watch as Jennings hit Malfoy with another _Crucio_.

“What is he _doing_?” Harry hissed to no one in particular.

“I know, isn’t it brilliant?” said someone behind him. “The Minister lifted the ban on Unforgiveables for interrogation purposes . . .”

Harry pushed himself away from the glass as Malfoy arched his back in a horrible parody of the pleasure Harry, himself, had given him only yesterday.

“This isn’t right . . . ,” he muttered. “This isn’t right . . . Out of my way!”

He had to get to Hermione. He _had_ to make them stop hurting an innocent man . . .

Harry was just closing the viewing room door behind him when he heard a commotion at the far end of the hall.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re not permitted to be down here.”

“Yes, I’m sure that is what you would like to believe, but I can assure you that you are wrong. Section fifty-three point seven gives Processes and Procedures advocates the right to . . .”

“Hermione!” Harry yelled. “Hurry! They’re torturing him!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to need to talk to my supervisor before I let you . . .”

“Please,” said Hermione furiously. “Do not force me to write you up.”

The guard laughed.

“Yes, please. I can’t imagine anything worse. Anything but that . . .”

“She’s with me, and she has permission to be down here,” said Harry, grabbing Hermione’s arm.

“But, sir,” said the bear-man. “Mr. Jennings said . . .”

“I was just in the viewing room with Mr. Jennings. It’s okay,” Harry said evenly.

“Well, in that case. Go ahead.”

Hermione giggled as Harry pulled her down the corridor.

“You didn’t even say _anything_ ,” she said. “Only that you were in a room with Jennings . . .”

“I’m not a liar,” Harry said through his teeth.

But for some reason, his answer only made Hermione laugh harder. Laughter that died, however, when another scream shattered the silence and reverberated eerily in endless echoes down the corridor.

“Oh my God!” she said, her face suddenly very pale. “Harry, that isn’t . . .”

“Yes,” he hissed. “It’s Malfoy. Jennings must have come down here while I was in your office. Do you have that emergency release?”

Hermione showed him the parchment in her hand, the ink still drying.

“Right here . . .”

“Good,” said Harry. “Get ready to make your best stink, Hermione.” And with that he shoved open the door and began pushing a way through the throng of spectators once again.

“ _Sonorus_ ,” said Hermione and then, at the top of her lungs:

“WILLIAM JENNINGS! THAT MAN YOU ARE TORTURING IS NO LONGER LEGALLY IN DETENTION! RELEASE HIM IMMEDIATELY, AND THE DEPUTY OF LAW ENFORCEMENT AND INTELLIGENCE WILL NOT BE NOTIFIED! REFUSE, AND I AM AUTHORISED TO STUN YOU WITHOUT FURTHER WARNING!”

Everything froze, and there was a collective gasp of shock. But Harry could not tear his eyes from the slumped figure with the heaving chest, and he was only vaguely aware of Hermione beside him, her own chest heaving with a familiar righteous anger for which, suddenly, Harry found himself very _very_ grateful. At last, Jennings turned to face the window.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“HERMIONE GRANGER, ADVOCATE WITH THE PROCESSES AND PROCEDURES OF JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, ACTING UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF AN ORDER OF AN HONOURABLE JUDGE OF THE NATIONAL WIZENGAMOT! RELEASE THE PRISONER NOW OR FACE THE CONSEQUENCES!”

Jennings’ face darkened.

“You do realise that this time tomorrow, your people’s offices will be storage closets.”

“BE THAT AS IT MAY, MR. JENNINGS, YOUR CURRENT OBLIGATION TO RELEASE THIS PRISONER REMAINS CLEAR!”

Jennings laughed and freed Malfoy from his bonds with a flick of his wand. Malfoy fell forward and lay groaning on the tile floor, and around Harry and Hermione, everyone laughed.

“Go ahead,” Jennings called at the blank window. “Take him. He’s worthless anyway. You just wasted your last ‘get out of jail free’ card on a complete nobody. Congratulations!”

“HE’S NOT A ‘NOBODY,’ YOU POMPOUS, POWER-HUNGRY SADIST! HE’S A HUMAN BEING! AND IF HE’S AS WORTHLESS AS YOU SAY, THEN WHY WERE YOU CONTINUING TO TORTURE HIM? BE CAREFUL, JENNINGS. PEOPLE MAY START TO WONDER IF YOU’RE DOING THIS MORE FOR PLEASURE THAN FOR PROFIT!”

There was another collective gasp from all assembled, and Harry had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep himself from laughing hysterically . . .

“ _Finite_ ,” said Hermione. “Harry,” she continued in a whisper. “Get out of here. Jennings has no idea you were involved, and he doesn’t need to know . . .”

“But . . .”

“You being present is only going to inflame him. He’s going to think I’m trying to turn his own people against him. The best thing you can do is leave before he sees you . . .”

“But what about Malfoy? . . .”

“The best thing you can do for _Malfoy_ is to leave before Jennings sees you. Don’t think he won’t try to get in one last curse if it’ll help salve his ego . . .”

“But . . .” Harry whispered. “You don’t understand, Hermione. Dra . . . , I mean, Malfoy thought I would protect him. He hasn’t seen me! He won’t know . . .”

Hermione smiled fondly.

“I’ll tell him,” she whispered. “I’ll make sure he knows. Now get out of here!”

And before Harry could gather his thoughts enough to figure out exactly _why_ the thought of Malfoy leaving without Harry having a chance to see him again was going to shatter Harry’s heart into a thousand pieces, he found himself outside in the luridly-lit corridor, on the other side of a heavy iron door.

 

* * * * * *

 

“Harry! What a pleasant surprise. Do come in.”

Harry smiled and squeezed himself into Hermione’s shoe-box-sized office. 

“Just throw that stuff on the floor,” she said, indicating that Harry should take a seat in a chair covered with folders.

“So, you’re back to being an outside agitator,” he said. 

“Yeah,” she sighed. “It’s okay, though. I’m not sure I was cut out to work for the Big Bad Government anyway.

“You and me both.”

Hermione cocked her head quizzically.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking these past couple of weeks . . . a lot, actually. And I’m just not sure I’m interrogator material.”

Hermione grinned.

“I’d hug you again, but there’s so little room in this office that I’m afraid I’ll break something in the process.”

Harry smiled.

“It’s all right. I already figured you’d be happy to hear my news.”

“So, what will you do then? Try to convince the Order to let you take an active role before the Final Battle?”

“No, I’ve tried that a million times. It’s a lost cause. No one there is listening to me. No, actually, I’m thinking of taking a break from the war all together. I mean, it’s not that I don’t believe it needs fighting . . . but it just doesn’t need fighting by me. Not yet, at least. One of these days, I’ll have to confront Voldemort, but in the meantime . . . well, maybe I want to see if I can live a little before I have to die.”

Hermione smiled at him sadly.

“I think I understand,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand where it lay on her desk. “Have you told Jennings yet?”

“No. That’s why I came to see you, actually. I was looking for something to steel my backbone for our meeting this afternoon, something to get me feeling all pissed off and indignant. I was wondering if you still have that file. You know. The one about the quote-unquote ‘accident’?”

“In fact, I do,” she said. “The Minister’s mandate that disbanded the PPD also required that all PPD files be turned over to DENT for further ‘investigation.’” She made finger quotes around the word. Harry smirked.

“Exactly,” she said. “A fucking joke. Well, I decided to hold on to a few and see if I could get the wizarding chapter of Amnesty International to help me look into them further. I’ll need that back,” she said, holding out the file to Harry. “But feel free to hang on to it for a couple of days.”

Harry nodded, reaching for the folder in her hand, and as he did so a small piece of parchment, no bigger than a matchbook, fluttered to the floor.

“What’s that?” he asked, as Hermione leaned over to pick it up and put it back in the folder.

“Oh, that. I have no idea, actually. The Healers found it under the fellow’s tongue after he died. I kept it, thinking it was a note of some kind. Cast every revealing spell I knew on it, but with no result. Maybe whoever beat that fellow to death used it to keep him from biting his tongue in half if his injuries resulted in a seizure. But why they’d care is beyond me.”

Harry shrugged and took the folder.

“Thanks. I’ll bring this back tomorrow.”

He stood to leave.

“Good luck with Jennings,” she said. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “For everything.” He saluted with the folder and turned to go.

“Aren’t you forgetting to ask me something?”

Harry froze, his hand on the doorknob and his back to Hermione.

“I figured if you had something to convey, you would have told me already,” he said in a strangled voice. But Hermione didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, it’s not like I had hours to talk to him. I barely had time to get him to sign all the paperwork before the Healers whisked him off to St. Mungo’s. But I did tell him that it was you who got him out.”

Harry swallowed hard and gripped the doorknob till his knuckles turned white.

“Did . . .did he say anything?”

“Yes, he did, Harry. He said, ‘Tell Potter thanks, and that I owe him one.’”

Harry released the breath he was holding in a long shaky sigh, letting the mingled relief and disappointment subside before speaking.

“How very appropriate,” he said, turning to smile at Hermione.

“You mean how very Malfoy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Call me after your meeting with Jennings if you want to talk.”

“I will,” he said. “See you later, Hermione.”

 

Walking down the corridor and away from Jennings’ office later that afternoon, Harry allowed himself to breathe freely for the first time in weeks. It was over, and while Jennings hadn’t been overjoyed to hear Harry’s news, he also hadn’t been surprised.

 _I always knew you were too good for this work_ , he said, clapping Harry’s shoulder when Harry stood to leave. _And I mean “good” in the truest sense of the word_

Harry smiled sadly. He was exhausted. But he was also free. Free of the terrible weight that had been bearing down on him since he’d first stepped into Malfoy’s cell and realised that whatever this was, it wasn’t what he, Harry, was meant to do . . .

Harry shifted the folders from one arm to the other, and as he did, the tiny piece of paper from Hermione’s “accident” file fluttered to the floor. Harry almost didn’t notice it, surrounded as he was by white institutional tiles on every side, but he’d seen _something_ move out of the corner of his eye, and when he realised what it was, he stooped to pick it up.

And suddenly, as his fingers closed around it, a strong flare of magic rippled up the length of his arm. Harry almost dropped it in his surprise, but then in the next instant, the paper grew into a standard-sized parchment scroll, and Harry’s gaze was drawn like a magnet to the words that materialised on the blank surface, growing darker with each passing second . . .  


_Dear Potter,_

_Or perhaps I should call you ‘Harry.’ After all, if events transpire as I have planned, you and I will have moved well past the point of referring to one another by our surnames._

_I am writing this the night before I plan to go to Borgin & Burkes and try to sell them a shocking five hundred vials of Death-Sleep Philtre. Can you imagine that, Harry? Five hundred vials! Who would be so stupid? And, of course, I’m going to do it during store hours, and hopefully in the presence of a poorly disguised Auror._

_In other words, Harry, if all goes well, I will be in the custody of DENT this time tomorrow. Because, you see, I have two things I must do, and they can only be done from the inside. Rumour has it that your illustrious Minister will be signing another mandate soon permitting the indeterminate detention of all war suspects. Which means our people, who have been trained to withstand a couple weeks of torture, will suddenly have to withstand . . . what? Months? Years? You see my point. Nobody can do that. Not even yours truly, although, one doesn’t become the Dark Lord’s Second in Command without learning a trick or two . . ._

_I’m sorry, Harry. Did that little piece of information take you by surprise?_

_Anyhow, back to what I was saying. The two things that can only be accomplished from the inside and my reasons for checking myself into Chez DENT for a few days. Because, mark my words, it’ll only be a few days, Harry. That’s how long it will take me to wrap your handsome self around my little finger._

_But I’ll return to that in a moment . . ._

_You probably don’t know this, Harry (just as I’m sure you didn’t know I was the Dark Lord’s right-hand man), but you have in custody one of the highest ranking Death Eaters you people have managed to capture in three years. Except for me, of course. But then again, I won’t really consider my time with you as a “capture.” After all, organising your own apprehension for strategic purposes is hardly a defeat. But, yes, you have one of my lieutenants. A man by the name of Donaldson, although given how bad you are with names, I’m sure that piece of information is meaningless to you. Suffice it to say, it is under Mr. Donaldson’s tongue that you – or someone else, a Healer, perhaps? – will discover this letter. I can only hope it falls into your hands because otherwise you’ll never know any of this. But perhaps that would be for the best . . ._

_Forgive me. I’ve had a glass of wine too many, and I’m getting maudlin about things that haven’t even happened yet . . . ._

_You thought Donaldson was tortured to death, didn’t you, Harry? Is it any comfort to learn that you weren’t completely wrong? He was tortured to death, indeed, but not by your people. No, my love. (Is it all right if I call you that?) He died at my hands. And not because he’d done anything wrong, either. He was an exemplary soldier, Donaldson. He just had the misfortune of getting caught and of being the only Death Eater you’ve managed to catch who had anything of value to tell you. You see my dilemma, I’m sure. I hate to waste a good man like this, but, well, if he talks, I’ve got bigger problems on my hands than the loss of one soldier._

_I can just hear you now: But why did you have to torture him to death? Why couldn’t you just snap his neck? Quick and easy and relatively painless? Well, you see, Harry. That’s where you come in. I’m going to let myself get caught, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you people keep me. And that was my biggest concern in formulating this little scheme of mine. Until another gem of information fell into my hands, that is._

_You see, someone informed me that Harry Potter – the man most renowned for Goodness with a capital “G” – had just been taken off that soul-killing dead end desk job his arsehat superiors had assigned to him and given a position with DENT. Ah ha! said I. Two birds with one stone . . ._

_So, yes, Harry, I confess. I used you shamelessly. Or perhaps I should say that I plan to use you shamelessly. But you see, I’m so confident in your righteousness and my acting abilities that I feel comfortable using the past tense. You will forgive me my cockiness, I hope._

_And speaking of cocks . . . Tell me, Harry, did you fuck me? Oh gods, I hope so! I’m sure I will tell you this, but it won’t hurt to repeat it here: I’ve dreamed of having you make love to me since I was barely out of puberty. That’s right, Harry, you heard me. Make love. Because that’s what it’ll be for me, Harry. Love and the making of it. I’m too old and I’ve seen too much to lie to myself any longer about my feelings for you. I made peace with it a long time ago. I wonder if you have? Perhaps I’ll find out?_

_A man can still dream, can’t he?_

_So, yes, Harry. This is a love letter. I’ll admit it’s less than ideal that you had to find it under the tongue of a man I killed brutally just to convince you that even The Good Guys are capable of torture, but, well, we all must make due in wartime._

_Let me say it again. I love you, Harry. I have been in love with you for years. When I grew up enough to realise that all those things I thought I hated about you were actually all the things I lacked in myself and yet coveted more than gold, I knew I didn’t hate you. It took me a long time, but I finally saw it for what it was. Have you?_

_It’s getting late, and I’m getting drunk. I should sign off here. But before I go, I must ask: Did I have a chance to thank you for arranging my release? I hope so. But just in case I didn’t, let me say it here. Now. Before it has even happened. Thank you, Harry. And perhaps if you can ever grow to see past the blinding burning hatred of me that I know this letter will ignite in your heart, perhaps you will come to see, in time, that I gave you something, too. Something far more precious than one man’s freedom could ever be._

_And with that I will say good-night, my sweet Harry. I will see you soon._

**Author's Note:**

> Wench Fic's beautiful [PDF version](https://app.box.com/shared/fo0ssd6sdf)


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